Viva Voce
by AndThatWasEnough
Summary: {Viva Voce: Latin for "living voice."} ...so, yeah. This is a story about cancer. And there's blood and tears and a lot of sad shit that's not easy to talk about. But it's also a story about legacy. And I think my father's leaving behind a good one. {Sequel to "Don't Think Twice" and "Sins of the Saints"}
1. The Grand Storyteller

**Author's Note: Hey, guys! We're back. This is the sequel to both** ** _Don't Think Twice_** **and** ** _Sins of the Saints_** **, novel-length stories that revolve around the romance of Two-Bit Mathews and OC Bridget Stevens. They are central characters in this story (as well as being** ** _Mom and Dad,_** **which is what they're commonly referred to as), but you don't need to read either of those stories for this one to make** ** _sense_** **, though it would help if you want to go back and read them.**

 **Although this is a sequel to** ** _Don't Think Twice_** **and** ** _Sins of the Saints_** **, and those are romances, that's not really the focus of this story. This story is very focused on the boys, even though it's told from the perspective of a second-generation character. Lots of flashbacks, is what I'm getting at. :)**

 **This takes place at an ambiguous point in time, but the flashbacks are very rigidly set into a timeframe. This is really an attempt to capture the feeling of a certain time period through the characters' eyes, so this is also a general disclaimer for any points of sensitivity. My apologies in advance.**

 **Alright, that's enough from me. Let's get into the story!**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

My father is a grand storyteller. He has a way with words that no one else I've ever met has. He used to tell me and my sisters outrageous things; about Rhett Bulter-ish characters and giants and heroes worthy of the Round Table. That's what we loved about him. Dad would sit the three of us down - Lisa sitting on Dad's lap and me next to Mary - and he'd regale us with stories that only a man like him could come up with.

"That's not true," Mary used to say. Absolutely indignant. "That can't happen."

Dad would shift Lisa on his knee, who would have usually drifted off by that point and be sucking her thumb, and grin at Mary. "And how might you know that?" He would ask her. "Show me your evidence, darlin'!"

Mary never had any. She'd just say something like, "It's not true. It's just not."

Dad would play nice, and he'd let her go on and say it. I knew she liked it though. Listening to his stories, that is. Mary would lean up against his shoulder and look up at him, and anyone could tell she was into it. I was, too, and I would stare intently at him as he spoke with an animation that was beyond the reach of anyone else. He knew some actual, real stories. And he made up some of his own. And sometimes, he'd twist a real story to accommodate his mood, make it his own.

As we got older, and busier, and even little Lisa got jaded and caught up to Mary and I, he stopped doing this so much with us. Or at least, we wouldn't gather around him and listen like we used to. At night, though, when he was home for the day and settled down with a scotch or beer, he'd sit on the couch and talk to me and Mary lazily about when he was a kid. He told us about how he used to get jailed for silly things, like walking around Tulsa on his hands. Or maybe he was a little less sober, and when it was just one of us, he'd get sad and tell us something that he'd pushed back, like when his dad left. Then he'd stare off into the distance at something none of us could quite see. After a few minutes, he'd come back down to earth, smile, and say he was headed for bed. He'd lean over and kiss the top of my head, and lumber down the hall and up the stairs.

Mama was there always, lingering in the background. She was the one leaning in the doorway at bedtime, working in the kitchen as he spoke, the one calling him upstairs when he got too carried away and caught up. She'd wrap her arm through his, look him in the eye, and he'd stare back at her. Then Mom would gently take him with her, wherever it was they were going.

Yeah. Mom's always been there. She's still there, with him. Good thing, too, because I got the call the other day that the old storyteller isn't doing so well.

"Doctors say it's the goddamn cigarettes," she huffed through the phone. "There isn't anything left to do but wait it out, let him go on his own."

This was a hard blow. My Dad was easily one of my best friends - not just my dad. Not long after Mary was born, Dad supposedly quit smoking. For the baby. But I repeatedly caught him on the back porch when Mom wasn't home. Or, when I was older, he'd just walk into my room with one already dangling from his lips, and he'd blow the smoke out in perfect rings. A true talent.

"Our little secret, huh, pal?" He'd said to me on numerous occasions.

Yeah. Our little secret ain't so little anymore.

My eyes stung as she delivered the news. I wondered how much she had already cried. Or if the stoicism she'd adopted over the years had kept her from crying _(Yet._ My mother – she's a crier.)

"You sure?" I asked, clearing my throat and trying to sound nonchalant. Mom hummed.

"Yeah, I'm sure. The doctors are sure, too. They aren't giving him much longer. Please come see him."

"I'll come," I told her. Without hesitation. I'd be there. "Um. But…when?"

"When?" She repeated.

"Yeah. Like… _tonight?_ Or do I have a day?"

"Well, I can't make any promises, but you do what you have to, honey. There's a _rush_ , but…there also isn't. I'm sure he'll be here at _least_ another day. But just…get here, Dally."

Her voice had such urgency to it. She didn't have to ask me again. Hell, I should've just dropped everything right then and ran for home. Screw the fact that it was the beginning of the term – I was needed elsewhere. And if he really didn't have much longer, then my students wouldn't have to be without me for very long.

It was practical, albeit morbid.

"I'll try to get there tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay."

"I'll bring Sammy. He'll be happy to see you guys."

I could picture Mom smiling a bit at the thought of her grandson. Not her first grandchild, but I think she and Dad had a bit of a soft spot for him. Probably because of all that's happened to him – not just to him, but to _us_ , me 'n' him. I heard voices and what sounding like a faucet running, so I guess she was in the kitchen. I wondered who she was with. Probably Mary and Lisa – my sisters. "We'd love to see him, too. How is he doing?"

"He's…okay," I shrug, even though she can't see me. "Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, then. So we'll see you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

"Alright. I love you, Dallas."

I swallow hard and know I sound close to tears when I say, "Love you, too, Mom," and hang up.

I put the phone back on its cradle and then lean against the kitchen counter, just staring at the phone. Life isn't a fair game. Not for anybody, really. And I've had my fair share of hardships. And I'll tell you more and more about them as we go. But I'm not one to complain – I'm really not. I like to think of myself as a pretty happy guy. I can only take so much shit, though. And this? Hurt like a _mother_.

My father was _dying_. Of fucking late-stage _lung cancer_. Untreatable.

 _Fuck_.

That's all that was going through my mind. _Fuck_. I couldn't imagine _my Dad_ – Two-Bit Mathews – dying. Ever. He'd survived too much. And he's like me – a pretty happy guy – but I guess the same goes for him, too, that he can only take so much shit before he has to throw in the towel.

Dad doesn't talk much about his time in Vietnam. Nobody does. At least, no one in my family. But he has told me before that he almost died over there. When he'd told me that as a kid, I thought it was cool. That the scar and the story was _cool_. That he'd looked Death in the eye and told him to fuck off because he'd had enough of that dark inevitability's shit.

Dad was fuckin' _cool_. My sisters thought he was a square, but they're his daughters. I'm his son. He let me help him do maintenance on the cars and played catch with me and taught me everything I know about baseball and liked all the same stupid movies I did. We always got each other.

He always got me.

I wasn't like my mother or sisters, as much as I loved them. And I know they love me, I do. But soon enough, Dad was going to be _gone_. _Forever_. So even with my mother and sisters and best friend and son…

You know what I'm getting at.

XXXXX

My first memory of _anything_ is actually of something that happened in Tulsa. That's where Dad is from. But we've never lived there. When Mom started to become more career-driven, Dad just followed her out to Manhattan without too many questions. At least, that's how the story goes. Dad's always been a go-with-the-flow sort of guy, so we could believe it.

(But we're about to learn that we maybe shouldn't've believed everything we'd been told.)

Anyway!

I think I was two or three years old. Dad's best friend, Darry Curtis, has a son, Lee. He's three years older than me, and a year older than Mary. There was a brief period of time where it was just the three of us; no other kids had been brought into the brood. And it didn't matter at the time that Mary was a girl, and that we were younger than him, or that Mary was my sister. It was the three of us against all the grown-ups, of which there was always too many, and one of the moms was always pregnant and grumpy those first few years.

 _Anyway_.

I'm two or three years old, and we're visiting Tulsa. I remember Mom and Dad were all over the place, juggling visits with in-laws and grandparents and friends. Someone was pregnant, and Mom wanted to see them. Looking back on it, they had been so _young_. Even at thirty and thirty-two, they seem like kids, knowing all I know now. I don't remember everything that was going on, but I remember being in someone's living room with Lee and Mary, the two of them trying (unsuccessfully) to show me how to play Candyland, and there's a pair of deep, gruff, arguing voices in the next room. Don't ask me what they were arguing about. And don't ask me who it was – though, best guess was our dads. Or maybe it was somebody else.

It's vague and fading from my mind, but I can still feel the shag carpeting against my skin; hear the back-and-forth of heated voices in tense conversation; see Mary's braided black hair, a contrast to her lily-white skin and pink dress; see the upset look on Lee's face as he kept glancing at the next room, but he and Mary saying nothing and eventually ignoring me to play their game.

Funny, how I can remember something like that, a non-descript moment from my childhood, but couldn't remember my father's face without him standing right in front of me. I was already losing him.

XXXXX

Before we get too into all this, you need to know that I know everything. (Well, not _everything-_ everything.) I know more about my family's past than my sisters do. The summer after I graduated college, I learned all the family secrets. Or, almost all of them. But it's important that you know that. Because for as many holes as I'd filled in for myself that summer, I was about to find out just how many I'd missed.

Family is a complicated thing.

I'll fill in the holes for you, too. Because family – all families – being as complicated as it is, means it makes for some pretty great stories. And nothing is more important to this group of people than a good story. Whether you're like Uncle Pony, who wrote his story down and was lauded for the insight he had as a fourteen-year-old when he finally published it at twice the age he was when he wrote it, or more like my Dad, where family history is an oral tradition. The way stories had ( _have,_ really) been told for thousands of years.

History began as an oral tradition long before we started writing anything down. But the message and the facts can get muddled either way.

As it turns out, we didn't have the facts as straight as any of us thought.

XXXXX

The night I found out Dad was dying, I put my kid to bed and then crawled into my own bed and cried. I felt lonelier than I had in my entire life. Even with my son. Because a guy can only take so much in such a short period of time. His wife can disappear from the face of the Earth for no apparent reason and he can handle it. He can handle raising his kid. But he can't handle losing his Dad on top of it all.s

But you don't get much choice in these things, so I was gonna have to deal with it, I guess. Sink or swim, right?

"Dad?"

I sat up. Sam, my son, was standing in my doorway. He was five years old and looked too much like his mother. Blond and fair and grey-eyed (the eyes are mine). Five years old and already somber. For the time being, at least. This family has a history of people getting left by their spouses, out of the blue. I was the fifth one it had happened to. It was the shittiest feeling in the world. To know that my ex-wife had probably never loved me, didn't love our son enough to even try. But I knew I could love him enough for both of us.

"What's up, kiddo?" I asked, wiping my eyes. "Why aren't you in bed?"

Sammy just shrugs and runs up to the bed, hopping in and flopping down beside me. He's been quiet lately. Too quiet. I should put him back in his own bed, but he pulls the covers over himself and burrows down, and the decision is made for me. And we're just sorta staring at each other, and I'm not crying anymore because I don't want him to see me like that. He's got his thumb in his mouth (really need to break him of that), and we're both wide awake now.

"Couldn't sleep, huh?" I asked. He shook his head. "Me neither."

"Why?" He mumbled.

"Just had a bad day," I whispered. "It's okay."

"What happened?"

I didn't want to tell him. But I didn't want to lie. "I got a call from Gramma. We're going to her house tomorrow."

Sammy's sleepy eyes lit up. "We're gonna see Gramma an' Grampa tomorrow?"

I nodded. "Yep. They're excited to see you. Are you excited to see them?" Sammy nodded. "Good. But you gotta know somethin', kiddo."

"Wha'?"

I steeled myself some and sighed, trying to figure out how to put this delicately. I had no real idea of the shape Dad was in, how bad off he was yet. If he was dying a horrible, painful death, or if he was just… _going_. And how to express all that to a five-year-old. "We're going because your grandfather is… _sick_. And he'd like to see us," I explained gently. "And so would Gramma and Aunt Mary and Aunt Lisa."

"Oh," he whispered. "Will he get better?"

No. "I hope so, Sammy."

XXXXX

That night, I dreamt a memory.

They were coming to me, all at once. I can't tell you why exactly, but I knew it all had to do with Dad dying. With going home.

Anyway.

Mary and I were… _accidents._ I mean, you should see how pregnant Mom was in their wedding pictures. Five months, I think. No woman would let that happen on purpose, I don't think. And then I just sorta…happened, apparently. But Lisa? Very premeditated. I was only four years old when she was born, but since then, Mom has told us that apparently, she just wanted to have another baby. And so, Lisa came. Neither Mary nor I wanted her. I remember their homecoming, Dad hovering close to Mom as she beckoned us into the new baby's nursery to meet our little sister.

"So?" She asked, a growing smile threatening to split her face in half. "What do you think of her?"

Mary and I leaned in. My big sister just sorta scowled at our new sister at first, then went for a disinterested look as she shrugged. Mom and Dad glanced at each other and shared some sort of look that only they could understand the meaning behind – something I could only describe to you as vaguely wry. I was even _less_ impressed, announcing to the room that she looked like a wad of pink bubble gum (What? That's what she looked like to me! She was pink and wrinkly and…you get the idea). Mom's eyes grew wide, but Dad started _howling_ , like that was the funniest thing he'd heard in his _life_. I could picture his broad shoulders and chest heaving, and my mother just shaking her head and biting back a smile.

"Dallas," she'd sighed, "don't say things like that about your sister," she gently reprimanded, but she had given in. I think she and Dad were just so tired at that point that the only thing they _could_ do was laugh at their ridiculous four-year-old. I didn't get what was so funny because I hadn't been _trying_ to be funny, but that's what everyone else was doing, so I got started, too. Mary – six years old and already with the attitude of an angsty teenager – just rolled her eyes.

I don't know why that was what my brain decided to give me that night, but I could feel myself smiling in my sleep. Everything was so _vivid –_ my mother, with her big, curly, shiny black hair and sharp, kind eyes. Mary, with looks just like Mom's but her attitude the exact opposite – a little prima donna. Then Lisa, who at the time really wasn't much, but what baby is? Just a bundle of pink. And then, yeah – there was Dad, with his hair longer than all the other Dads and his wide grin and his stupid sense of humor.

I couldn't imagine losing any of them.

But I guess I needed to get used to the idea.

XXXXX

 **AN: So, this was essentially the prologue, or set-up. The canon characters will become more involved next chapter, and are the focus of the story, so don't worry. But I wanted to give you guys a chance to meet our narrator a bit :)**

 **Alright, so as we get under way, feel free to let me know what you're thinking! Hearing from you makes my day. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Things Fall Apart

**Author's Note: Here's chapter two! I'd like to thank those of you who favorited and reviewed last chapter. Feedback is EVERYTHING to a writer. So thank you!**

 **Oh, and a heads-up: In case you didn't know, I don't own The Outsiders. Hinton does. I'm just playing in her garden. I don't own** ** _anything._** **Not** ** _The Simpsons_** **, not Sunday Night Football, not** ** _Tuesdays with Morrie…_** **nothin'.**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

It had been a long time since all three of us kids had stayed home for longer than a night. Together, I mean. Mary was the oldest (and made sure Lisa and I knew it, even though she was only two years older than me), and moved out first. Then I moved out a couple years later, when Lisa was fourteen. So Lisa was used to being home alone, with Dad at work and Mom busy with…any number of things she's been busy with over the years. Bridge club. DAR. Women's groups. Motherhood in general. If Mom wasn't _go-go-going,_ she became overbearing. But Lisa had become her shadow. And Mary and I had left her behind. And we could only hope she wasn't bitter about it.

What can I say? At eighteen years old, the only thing I wanted to do was get the fuck out. And I'd been given plenty of opportunities to do so, _so I did_. Sorry, Lis.

The family house is in a quiet neighborhood – as quiet as New York can get, I guess. And it's a _house,_ not a townhouse. Mom and Dad moved here after Mary but before me, so none of us kids have any memories of living anywhere else. It's just a little ways down the street from a Catholic church, but we're not very religious people – we only ever stepped foot in that place when there was extended family in town. (But Dad _was_ technically Catholic – would there be a service there? God, would he even be _buried_ in New York? Or would we send him down to Tulsa? Would he be buried _at all?_ Or cremated? Jesus, there were already too many damn questions.) My best friend, Tony, had lived next door. His mother still lived in the same house. Mom kept the yard in impeccable shape (one of her many things to keep her occupied) all year round, only ever getting Dad involved when there were sharp instruments or mowing to be done. The day Sammy and I went home, it was the drabbest of fall days – the yard was covered in leaves and everything looked grey and wet.

Of course.

"Why're we visitin' Gramma and Grampa again?" Sammy asked as we got out of the car. I guess he'd forgotten our late-night conversation.

"Cuz we love them and we like visiting them, that's why," I sighed, skirting the truth. I wasn't ready to tell him the truth. But what I said wasn't _wrong_. We _do_ love Grandma and Grandpa, and we _do_ like visiting them. He's five and I'm not ready yet, okay? Okay. Kid already has enough bad going for him. "Go ring the doorbell," I told him, and Sammy giddily ran up the front steps and I followed him. His still-chubby fingers pushed repeatedly on the doorbell. I was about to tell him to cut it out when I saw a shape moving towards the door through the glass, and who should appear but Mary.

It's _always_ Mary.

"Who's _this?"_ She asked in an almost-baby voice, leaning down to hug Sammy. "Oh, kiddo, you're getting so _big!_ " Mary kissed his cheek, which Sammy didn't look too thrilled about, but he smiled up at her anyways. "Why don't you go inside? Grandma wants to see you." Sam shot past her into the house. Mary pushed herself up and wilted a bit, smiling sadly when she saw me.

"Hey, Dally," she sighed.

"Do I get a kiss, too?" I asked, finally getting to hug my big sister. Mary huffed a soft laugh and put her hand on my back, leading me inside.

"You're the last ones here."

"Are we?"

Mary nodded. "Lisa and I got here yesterday. Couldn't get away, professor?"

I rolled my eyes. "Where's Mom?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Kitchen."

"Is she…okay?"

Mary shrugged. "She's doing alright. I'm not exactly worried yet. Sammy'll be a good distraction for her. Lisa and I didn't bring along anybody, it's just us. Good thing he hasn't started school yet."

I snorted. "Seriously? Our father is upstairs on his _deathbed_ , and you're worried about _school?"_

"Oh, stop it, Dally. I didn't mean anything by it, okay? Please don't…just, let's not get upset with each other, alright?"

Mary's voice was desperate. Mary and our father…well, they loved each other, but they didn't always get along. Or, she just really liked doing the opposite of everything he told her to do. But Mary had mellowed out over the years. She'd gone to college and calmed down, became a nurse. I'm not saying that Mary ever really got into any bad stuff, but she did like to butt heads. She liked to be right. She liked to win. It's hard to win against your parents. And now, with everything…

"Are _you_ okay, Mary?" I asked softly.

She looked a bit surprised that I asked, but then she relaxed, resignedly nodding. "Yeah. Well – yeah. I guess I am. I mean…it's hard. Everything's just happened so fast. When stuff started happening, Mom called to ask me to take a look at him before they went to any doctors. See if it was anything obvious. My best guess was some sort of infection, but I told them to go to the doctor anyway. And…well. You know how that ends."

I nodded. "So he's…pretty bad?"

Mary smirked. "You're trying to ask if he's hurting, yeah?" I sheepishly nodded. "He doesn't exactly look like a cancer patient, Dally. This thing decided to finally rear its ugly head too late for him to go through any treatment. He just looks…" Mary shrugged. "Tired, I guess. They've given him some pretty good drugs, though, so I don't think he's in _too_ much pain."

I sighed and let that all sink in. I don't know exactly what I was expecting, but I was still bracing myself for something horrible. Mary put a hand on my arm and rubbed a little circle. "Come on – you should see Mom and Lisa first."

I nodded numbly and followed Mary into the kitchen, where Mom and Lisa were doting on Sammy.

Allow me to make a few quick introductions.

Bridget is my mother. Kinda willowy, but graceful and dignified in her manner. Even at her age, her hair had barely greyed and was still big, curly, shiny. Mom's hair has always been a point of pride for her, at least in my memory. She's very young-looking, and still as sharp as she was when we were kids. Mom was the pragmatist of our parents, the disciplinarian, even though it was Dad who you needed to watch out for when he was angry. Mom used to work – she _was_ a Julliard-trained musician – but stopped after Lisa was born. But I don't think she was bitter about it – like I've said, Mom's always found ways to keep busy. But she's never been out of reach.

You've met Mary a bit. Mary is Mom's doppelganger. But her hair isn't _quite_ as big, her eyes not _quite_ as green. But she is as practical as Mom, maybe even more so. Nursing is a fitting career for Mary, seeing as how she can distance herself and become cold, calculating when she needs to. She gave Mom and Dad a lot of grief growing up (though, since we were so close in age, I was often her partner in crime). But like I also said, she's mellowed a lot. I get that she may kinda sound like a bore, but she's _not_. Trust me.

But it's Lisa who's the card. She's your typical baby of the family, used to getting what she wants when she wants it. She's had Dad wrapped around her little finger since she was born, a real Daddy's girl. I wondered how she was taking all this. But as close as she is to Dad, it was Mom who she shadowed almost constantly, who shared her interests. I mean, I think Lisa pretty much only wore tutus and leotards from the ages of four to twelve, and was built like our mother. Lisa was dreamy and funny and she and I like to team up against Mary on practically everything.

"We're here," I announced to the room, and the three of them looked up. Sam wasn't interested by my presence, but Mom smiled that same sad smile that Mary had given me and crossed the kitchen to hug me. She had never seemed so small when I was a kid, but these days, she barely came up to my chin. Dad and I are pretty big guys…or, Dad _was_. I have no clue yet what he looks like.

"Hey, Dallas," Mom sighed, pulling away and instantly smoothing down the wrinkles in my shirt, like she used to do on school picture days. I smirked down at her.

"Hey," I parroted. "What's new, Mom?"

Mom huffed a tired laugh. "Very funny." She shook her head. "I'm glad you're here."

"I am, too."

"Hey, Dally."

Lisa had edged her way into the picture, and yeah, she didn't look that great. Like she was getting ready to crumple into a heap. I hugged her, too, a little tighter maybe than the others. She looked like she needed it. "Hey, Lis."

"Hey," she said again, her voice a breathy sigh muffled into my chest.

"Sammy," Mary said, looking down at her nephew, "Why don't you go watch some TV for a minute, okay?" Sam wasn't gonna argue against that, so he ran off to the living room and turned on the set. The women in my life turned on me.

"So," I began. "Dad."

"Yes," Mom sighed. "Him."

No one seemed to know what to say, how to breach the topic of Dad's impending death. We were all just _here_ , standing in the kitchen together. Mom had something on the stove and in the oven, and it all felt a little too much like the nights where Dad was working late and it was just the four of us at dinner. Just the four of us. There was an awkward pall settling over the room until Mom took a deep breath and dove right back into the subject.

"I know all of this is really sudden," Mom began, hands gripping the island and giving each of us a significant look. "And I'm sorry about all of this, but I'm glad you're all here. I know you're busy."

"That doesn't matter, Mom," Lisa sighed. "Of course we came."

"That's another thing." I put my finger to my lip and sorta slouched back – a stance Lisa had taken to calling my 'lecture position' – and tried to put this as delicately as possible. "Why is he _here_ and not in a hospital?" I asked. "Or, why isn't there a hospice nurse here?"

Mom and Mary exchanged tired looks. "Your father wasn't exactly enthused at the idea of staying in the hospital until…well, until it happens," Mom explained, skirting around that word. "And when we brought up hospice, well, he just kept on insisting that Mary was a nurse and that he didn't want some stranger in the house. He was, uh, _adamant._ "

That was her nice way of saying that my good-natured Dad had thrown an absolute fit.

Lisa ran a hand through her already unruly hair. She was the only one sitting down. "He wants to do this his way," she shrugged. "It's his life. And he's not wrong about Mary – she can read the labels on all those drugs and figure it out. So Dad signed out AMA – he's done dumber things than that."

Mary rolled her eyes. "This is a life or death situation we're talking about –"

Lisa cut her off, shaking her head. "No it's not, Mary. This is not an _or_ situation we're dealing with here. Dad is going to die no matter what we do. And if this is how he wants to go about it, I say we let him."

(Lisa was inclined to give Dad anything he wanted because he'd always done the same for her.)

Mary clearly wanted Dad to go back to the hospital, if the imploring look she gave Mom was anything to go by, the unspoken _I'm the medical professional and I think we should drag his ass back to the hospital_ hanging heavy in the air. But Mom just sighed and shook her head. "We're managing," was all she said, mostly to Mary. Lisa shot me a triumphant grin behind their backs, but I could only shake my head.

"You've both been here since last night," I said to my sisters. "So you've…you've _seen_ him…is he –"

Mom came forward and put a comforting hand on my back. "Honey, you should just go see him for yourself."

I swallowed roughly. We'd all been talking about him, but I'd forgotten that he was still here, upstairs, in Mom-'n'-Dad's room.

"Mama," I whispered, but she just shushed me and started leading me out of the kitchen and upstairs.

XXXXX

"Damn, boy! Don't ya knock anymore?"

Dad was sitting up in bed, grinning at me. He was decent and had no reason to be bitching. I could've cried. He looked bad. His eyes were rimmed red and were sunken. He was otherwise pale, and his broad shoulders were becoming bony. This was my _Dad_ \- the same Dad who had once been built like a brick wall, who was impossible to knock down, who played catch and wrestled and laughed...and he used to just envelope us kids in his arms, and he was so sturdy. He wrapped you up, and you could smell the cologne (and smoke) and that old, old smell on him that just meant I was home.

"Aw, hell, Dad," I choked out, barely able to keep it together. I turned my head, and saw Mom had already left. Just me and the old man. My eyes welled up, and Dad beckoned me over to sit next to him.

"Do I really look that bad?" He asked, a smirk tugging at his lips. He was joking, but I didn't take it like that.

"Yeah, you do," I whispered. I gingerly sat down next to him, careful not to sit on him or anything. He looked like he would fall apart if I even touched him.

"Damn," he breathed. "And I thought I still had it. Shit, Dally. Didn't expect to see ya like this."

"To be fair, I didn't expect to see _you_ like _this_ ," I pointed out. Nobody ever wants to imagine watching their parent die. Actively _watch_ it happen. Dad grinned.

"Fair point. But it won't last much longer."

"Don't say that."

"It's true, though."

"Yeah, it is. But still. Not right now. Just…not right now, okay?"

He and Mary were all about the _not right now_ thing. But why not? Why not right now, when we didn't have much time left? Not as a whole family, that is. "How're you feeling?" I asked, already knowing what his answer would be.

"Fine," he shrugged. "Gotta admit, I thought dyin' was gonna feel, ya know, _worse_ than this?"

"How is this not already horrible? You have fuckin' lung cancer, how can you even _breathe?"_

Dad shrugged again. "Dunno, kid. Guess some people have a worse go of it than I do."

I shook my head. It was always like this with him. Nothing ever hurt – not even the gash he'd gotten breaking up a fight in his bar when I was twelve. Nothing was ever hard. Not even dying. It was frustrating as hell sometimes, having a father that refused to ever admit to being in pain. Must be a generational thing. The way guys his age don't talk about Vietnam. They just push it all down.

"You're impossible," I deadpanned, and Dad just laughed and shook his head, which then turned into this gross, hacking, laugh-cough hybrid. I grimaced. "Jesus. That's terrible."

" _Well,"_ he sighed, sounding worn out, "my lungs _are_ failing."

"Dad!" I squawked. "How are you being so _cavalier_ about this? Jesus! Aren't you at least _pissed off_ or something?"

Dad stiffened up a bit and shot me a wry look. I shrunk back a bit. Even though he was ailing, wasting away in front of our very eyes, there was something in his eyes that harkened back to my childhood. I'd been here only an afternoon and already I felt like I was fourteen again. _Great_. And really, I hadn't meant to piss him off. But I wasn't just going to accept that he was going to just let himself die.

"Sorry," I whispered, wanting to sound more confident but my voice betraying me. And also wanting to say more but not knowing what. It may not surprise you that I'm never at a loss for words – my father and I were always incessantly talking. But nothing was how it was supposed to be right now.

Dad watched me closely, and I guess he decided I was appropriately remorseful because he went on. "It's not like I want this to happen, Dallas. And trust me – your mother was fucking _livid_ when she found out about this. About how I lied to her about quitting. So she and I have already duked it out. I've spent enough time in my life pissed off, kid. I'd rather not spend the rest of it that way."

My father was a good-natured man, yes. But he wasn't the touchy-feely type. But that was too bad because right then, I, a grown-ass man, started crying, and pressed my face into my neck, heard him sigh, felt him wrap his arms around me and squeeze with surprising strength.

XXXXX

"You fought with Dad?"

I had to ask. I was keeping my voice quiet because Sammy was in the room, playing a game with Lisa on the floor pretty much right in front of the TV. He'd been pretty quiet that evening since seeing Dad. He burst into the bedroom and saw not only his dying grandfather, but his father sobbing into his own father's chest. Probably a little much for him.

It was a Sunday night, which usually meant _The Simpsons._ A firm favorite. But their yellow coloring would have been too bright for our moods, so thank god for Sunday Night Football. Shout-out to the Giants for running their game late.

"When?" Mom laughed. "You're acting like your father and I have never fought before."

"I meant the fight you had when you found out he was sick. He told me that the two of you got into a fight about him smoking."

"It wasn't about _smoking_. It was about him lying to me all these years. Look – it happened, we both feel bad about it, and we're over it. There's nothing we can do now, and I don't want to be mad at him. Don't worry about it."

I wasn't totally convinced, and I was also feeling a building guilt about knowing that he'd lied to her all those years. I'd felt so cool, keeping a secret like that from Mom. It doesn't feel so great now.

Just then, Mary came into the living room. Have to admit – I hadn't even noticed she wasn't there. I was more tuned in to the fact that Dad wasn't there. He was sleeping (hopefully), and without him and with all of us just feeling… _blah,_ everything was really low-energy. The mood of the household hadn't been this somber since I'd had my accident. (That's another long story. Hang in there, we'll get to it.)

"Where were _you?"_ I asked, calling Mary out. She heaved a great big sigh. Everyone was just _sighing_ all over the place.

"I was on the phone with James." James is Mary's husband. He's a _senator's son_. None of us like him. "He's wondering if I know how long I'll be here."

"You'll be here until it happens," Lisa piped in, careful not to use the D-word around Sam. Not yet. "And we don't know when that's going to be."

"I know," Mary groused, sitting down on the floor with Lisa and Sam, watching them play…god, that was _Mystery Date_. "But you know how he is."

"Yep! We sure do."

"Cut it out, Dally."

"Hey, you said it, not me. I just agreed with you."

Mary shook her head again, rolling her eyes. "I also talked to Uncle Soda. He was letting me know when their flight was getting in."

I raised an eyebrow. "Flight? What flight? They're coming up here?"

Mary looked confused. "Well, yeah. Mom didn't tell you?"

I raised an eyebrow and looked at Mom, who looked about as confused as I did. "What're you talking about?" I drawled, looking back at my older sister. Lisa wasn't saying anything, so I could only assume she either knew _exactly_ what Mary was talking about, or had no clue at all.

"What did I forget to tell him?" Mom asked. Mary looked between us.

"You know…about Dad's friends?"

Mom suddenly looked a bit annoyed. If Mary was the _princess_ of eye-rolling, Mom was the _queen_. " _Right_. Yes. Your uncles are coming to town."

Allow me to clarify: my father doesn't have any brothers. He has a sister, my Aunt Sadie. She's great and all, but she's a lot younger than Dad. But Dad has these friends that he's grown up with and has known nearly his whole life, so we consider them 'uncles', and any of their wives 'aunts', and their children our cousins. It's a found family. Mom and Dad don't have lots of biological family – Mom has no siblings, and Dad has the one. And our grandparents are…well, dead. But Steve Randle and the Curtis Brothers? Big presence.

"Is that a problem?"

"That's what I asked," Lisa said, giving Mary a _look_. "They're _family,_ ya know. They wanna see Dad, too. And besides, you're the one who invited them, Mom!"

"I know, I _know._ And I know they do," Mom sighed, sounding remorseful for any previous annoyance. "And they _are_. It's just…you _know_ …."

"Mom," I sighed, smearing a hand down my face. I knew what she was getting at. When the five of them got together, everything became balls-to-walls crazy. Even level-headed Darry Curtis could have a good time. You shoulda seen them twenty years ago – now _that_ was something. "Dad's _dying_. I don't think it's gonna be like their usual get-togethers."

"That's not it. I know _that_. It's just…well, I always forget what having them all under one roof entails. I'm just not ready for all the _word vomit_ we're about to get hit with."

At first, I had no clue what she was talking about.

XXXXX

I figured out what she was talking about later that night.

Sammy had long gone to sleep up in my old bedroom, and I was about to join him. As I was heading towards the stairs, Dad came down them, and wordlessly grabbed me by the shoulder and started leading me back into the living room.

"Dad, what the hell?" I hissed, even that sounding too loud in our quiet old house.

"We need to talk," he said, and pushed me down into a chair and stood over me. I felt like I was fifteen years old and being scolded for breaking curfew. Or for letting my math grade fall too low because god knows I can't play baseball if I'm flunking pre-calculus.

"What about?" I asked. "Dad, how're you even _walking?_ I thought you were dying, man."

"I am." Dad waved a hand. "And that's just it – I'm dying, kid. And we have a problem."

I laughed, even though it kinda felt wrong to. "Yeah, I'd say so."

Dad shook his head. "No, not that. I mean – _yes_ , I know, I ain't gonna be around anymore, everyone will be devastated, yada yada. So that's why I came up with this idea."

I raised an eyebrow. "And what idea is that?"

Dad smirked. "I got to thinkin', when I saw Sammy earlier. He's five years old – he ain't gonna remember me five, ten, fifteen years down the road. We ain't never gonna get to know each other. And I don't like that."

I was all choked up all of a sudden. "I don't like that, either," I whispered. "What's your point?"

"Well, I figger that there's a way for him to know me even when I'm dead."

"Well – yeah, Dad. We're all gonna be around. It's not like he's never gonna know you existed."

"Not what I mean," Dad shook his head. "Look – you're a _history prof_ , yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And you write _a lot_ , right?"

"Right."

"Like, books and stuff."

"Well, yeah, Dad."

" _So_ , what I'm thinkin' is that we need to start writin' stuff down."

Wait. Hold up a second. "Write down… _what_ , exactly?"

Dad finally sat down, leaning towards me. "You know as well as I do – as well as anybody does – that I've got a hard time shuttin' up. And since you're a real smart guy, I think you oughtta write down everything."

 _Oh_. "You mean you want me to actually _record_ all your stories. So that Sammy can know who you…well, _were_."

Dad pointed at me. "Yahtzee. Like that book – _Tuesday with Morrie_ or whatever. And with the guys comin' up, I think it ain't a half-bad idea!"

Dad looked pretty pleased with himself for coming up with this. I just continued to stare at him, and him back at me. But I felt myself nod, subconsciously agreeing to this little project without a second thought.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

Dad clapped me on the shoulder. "You're a good man, Dally."

I could only say, "Aw, you're too kind, Dad." Nothing of real meaning. There'd be time for meaning later.

(Oh, and in case you were wondering, you're reading that little project right now.)

XXXXX 

**AN: I've had to do a lot of research on Two-Bit's condition and how it's handled at home, just in case you were curious and have questions. But since this is fiction, there's also some special circumstances driving everything that's going on.**

 **Updates are coming pretty quick right now! Hope I can keep it up…**

 **Thank you for reading. If you have thoughts, I'd love to hear them! You reviews are my drug ;)**


	3. It's Quite the Story, Really

**Author's Note: Welcome back! Man, I hope I can keep this update schedule up, but we'll see.**

 **This chapter begins the telling of Dallas's summer adventure in Tulsa that he briefly mentioned in chapter one. His story will be woven into the one he's already telling, and there will be updates on it every fifth chapter, in five parts. This section is exposition, as all early parts are, so bear with me! It's all going somewhere.**

 **Thank you all for your continued support. It means the world to me,**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

Dad was at breakfast the next morning. Showered, dressed, and bright-eyed. If it weren't for the obvious weight loss, everything would've felt…normal. If I allowed myself to suspend belief for a minute, I could imagine it was say…1992. When I'm fifteen years old, Mary is seventeen, and Lisa is eleven. It's a weekday, so back then, it would've been a school day. Mom would've already been up for about an hour and a half – an early riser. Mom made a good housewife; there was always breakfast on the table, and dinner was a family affair each night. That was all her doing. If it were up to Dad, we'd be late every morning and probably order pizza every night from that place a couple blocks over that we all liked. But back then, I don't think any of us kids would have complained about that.

"Look who it is," Mom drawled, eyeing Dad skeptically, like she was expecting him to keel over at any second. But she was trying to hide it behind a smile and a kiss to Dad's bearded cheek (Dad has been growing a beard on-and-off for as long as I could remember. With his long, greying hair and beard, he was certainly the most granola dad in the neighborhood).

"Yeah, yeah. What's cookin', good-lookin'?"

All of us kids groaned, and yeah, _that_ felt like old times. Dad just laughed, and Mom shook her head. Everyone ignored me as I checked my blood sugar and stuck that fucking needle in my stomach, like I've been doing every day of my life since the fourth grade. And every day, no one said anything about it. That's just how it was. We talk in this family, but we don't always _talk_. Not about bad things. So Dad's failing health was definitely the elephant in the room.

The only difference between then and now, really, was that Sam was here, shoveling sticky, too-big bites of pancake into his mouth, getting his mouth and fingers covered in maple syrup. Dad chuckled when he saw him and sat between him and Lisa (Lisa had sorta taken Sam under her wing. Maybe she just needed him for the moment). "Good stuff, kid?" He asked, and Sammy nodded his head enthusiastically, sucking syrup off his thumb. Dad laughed again.

Mary shot me a look, but I had no clue what she was trying to say to me, so I shrugged. But I had a feeling she was gonna ruin our little domestic moment. She sighed and set her coffee down on the table. Dad and Lisa looked up at her. Sammy kept eating. Mom kept flipping pancakes. "I got another call this morning, from Soda."

Dad raised an eyebrow. "Sodapop? What was he calling about? And Jesus, that early?"

"He's kinda up at the crack of dawn each day, Dad," I deadpanned, referring to my horse-crazy uncle's job caring for – you guessed it – horses. Dad waved me off.

"They're flying out here today. They'll be here tonight."

"They will be?" Dad asked, looking between all of us. "Why?"

"Just a guess," Mom called over her shoulder from the stove, "but it might have something to do with your _health_."

See? Had to avoid that _word_. You know. That _word_.

"Oh," Dad sighed. "Right. Well, it'll be real good to see them."

Every unspoken thing hung heavy in the air. This time, it was the unspoken _for the last time._ But that was the truth! Dad, however, moved right past that and had instead occupied himself with attempting to wipe off Sammy's hands and mouth. Sammy didn't say anything, but he scowled the whole time. "Dallas, you aren't eating," Dad observed instead.

"Neither are you," I shot back. It's a weird thing – when something's bugging me, I don't eat. I've always done that. It frustrates Mom and Dad to no end, especially considering the whole _you're fucking diabetic what part of needing to keep your blood sugar steady do you not fucking understand, you dumbass?_ thing. We both knew why the other wasn't eating, but I knew Mom would eventually force us to.

"Dallas Mathews, you are not going to sit at my table and _not_ eat." There it is! Mom set a plate in front of me and gave me a look that said I had better start eating or she'd start scolding me, and man, that'd be embarrassing, so I started picking away at it. "Keith, that goes for you, too."

Ooh, bigguns. Mom _never_ called Dad by his real name. Whenever she did, Lisa snorted. Every time, without fail. She thought it was the funniest thing, and this time was no exception. Dad shot her a pretty nasty look, then cut his eyes back up to Mom. "Don't exactly see the point _, babe_. Not hungry, anyways."

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to fight night! In one corner we have Mom, coming in about five-foot-four and a hundred and thirty pounds. And in the other corner, we have Dad, and he's comin' in at roughly six-foot-two and…well…I can't tell how much he weighs anymore. But he could still probably pile-drive Mom through the floor and into the basement. But he's not gonna do that, because that icy stare Mom's fixing him with right now? Nothing and _nobody_ can beat that. (And because my father would never pile-drive my mother. That'd be _nuts._ )

"Keith."

" _Bridget,"_ Dad shot back, looking proud of himself. More people call Mom by her real name than not, but she's still more commonly referred to as Bee. Dad christened her that decades ago. Bee 'n' Two-Bit.

"Anyway," Mary cut into the silence, and Mom and Dad unwillingly tore their eyes away from each other's, "they're all going to be here tonight. So are we gonna pick them up, or…?"

"They've been comin' up here for thirty years," Dad said, instantly dismissing Mary's attempts to try and plan everything out. "They can get themselves here."

"Alright," Mary drawled. "Um –"

"Do we have any old notebooks layin' around, honey? Or legal pads?" Dad asked, directing his question towards Mom. As if their disagreement hadn't even happened. Mom scrunched up her nose.

"Why?" She asked. But I knew why he was asking.

"Dal and I have started a little project," he explained. Lisa narrowed her eyes.

"What sort of project?" She asked, but Dad just smirked and shook his head.

"That is top-secret, classified info, girly-girl. Anyways, Honey Bee, do we got any?"

Mom shrugged. "Maybe. I guess there might be some in the basement. Check there."

Guess where Dad sent me after breakfast.

XXXXX

"Alright – I raided the basement, and this is what I was able to find."

I dropped three spiral-bound notebooks, two composition notebooks, and five yellow legal pads on Dad's lap. He coughed for a moment, but I wasn't exactly sure if it was because of the dust or the dying.

"Ace work, kid. This should, uh, this should be enough."

I smirked and sat down next to him on the sofa. Dad was thumbing through all of them, I guess checking for any writing of any sort. I had already checked, of course. These notebooks were to be dedicated solely to this little project of ours. I could give him that much.

"How exactly are we gonna start all this?" I asked. I guess as willing as I was to do this, it still hadn't quite sunk in that I was gonna have to be doing a lot of writing and recording. Which, gross. But I figured it might be a nice distraction for all of us. I just didn't know how much time we had. But for now, Dad seemed stable enough, like he was hanging in there for now.

"Well, I thought we might wait until my buddies get here."

I nudged him. "You excited to see 'em?"

Dad let himself smile. The five of them were such a unit. Over the years, I can't think of many days going by where Dad didn't speak to at least one of them on the phone, or sent them stupid letters. All of our families shuttled annually between Manhattan, Chicago, and Tulsa to see each other. It was all because of the five of them sticking together nearly their whole lives. They had something special, that was for sure.

"Yeah, I am. I mean, I…" He sighed, clearly frustrated. "I guess this is the last time I'll see 'em, ya know? Because if they stay until…"

This was the first time since I'd come home that I'd seen Dad get anywhere close to emotional. Dad wasn't a crier, not like Mom, but he occasionally got choked up. He hadn't cried yet about saying goodbye to us, hadn't cried yet _period_ , but he got really close just then. So I nodded to spare him the grief.

"I know, Dad," I said softly. It was weird, being the one to comfort _him,_ when my whole life it was the opposite. Not to ignore the fact that I could've used some right now, too. He cleared his throat.

" _Anyways_ ," he huffed, plowing ahead, "this is good."

"It is," I agreed. "I'm glad you're doing this for him."

Dad smirked. "Yeah, well, I know the ramblings of an old man aren't exactly the best gift to give a five-year-old, but I'm guessin' he ain't gonna be the only one who's gonna wanna read 'em."

I shook my head. "No, he's not." I patted his knee, maybe a bit gentler than I would've in the past. "I was thinkin' about all this last night, and I was kinda thinkin' – well, it needs a framework, ya know? They all need to be coherent. The order they're in needs to make sense, and there needs to be, like, a _theme_ , ya know?"

Dad raised an eyebrow and looked at me like I was nuts. "You're the prof, kid, not me. If you say it needs it, then you go right on ahead, Dal."

Well, I went right on ahead with my plan. While Dad was sleeping, Mom was out working in the yard with Lisa and Sammy, and Mary was making scores of frantic phone calls, I snuck into the old library (well, it's more of an office, 'library' being more of a joking term, but shit, there are books piled all over the place and stuffed into shelves, so it kinda feels like one. The books are mostly Mom's, by the way), opened up one of those old composition notebooks, and made myself feel like I was in tenth grade again, writing a theme of some sort, and started this story in the only way that made sense to me.

XXXXX

 _Entry #1_

 _1999_

Before I tell you about my time in Tulsa, there are two things you need to understand.

One: I'm diabetic. Have been since the fourth grade. And there was a time when I was younger and having it felt like a major disability. I know that sounds stupid – we live in a world of advanced medicine, after all – but I was a kid. I'd heard too many horror stories. My Uncle Steve's mother had died from complications with her diabetes. So when I tell you that a big part of my soul-searching had to do with being a juvenile diabetic, I know it sounds stupid. But trust me, it's an important part of this story.

Two: I had this acquaintance in college named Katherine. She killed herself our senior year. My best friend, Tony (the one who lived next door to us), and I found her strung up in her closet. I met Katherine during, of all things, one of my really bad insulin reactions. She helped me out. (See? I told you it was important). When she died, we had just graduated from Syracuse. I was supposed to be going home.

I didn't go home.

I think it was Katherine's death that made me do it. I dunno, Katherine wasn't some great friend of mine or anything. But she was a _friend_ , and I knew her, and Tony and I were the ones who found her hanging in her apartment. And that fucked me up. My parents didn't know about that. In fact, they didn't even know Katherine existed. Maybe that's okay. Kat would probably give Mom an ulcer, and Dad...

I dunno about Dad.

Dad's an interesting case.

But so was Kat.

She was sad. She was interesting. She was someone that my best friend Tony told me to avoid. But I couldn't. I thought I could save her, but I couldn't. And when I finally realized it was too late, when I got the note that she was going to kill herself, I called the most stable person I know:

Darry Curtis.

"Whaddya mean she's gonna kill herself?" He asked. I sobbed.

"Exactly that!" I cried. "She's probably gone already! Darry, what am I s'posed to do?"

He sighed. "Kid, Dal, calm down. I...I would call 911. Get an ambulance. Then go get her."

I didn't want to go get her, but I did. The whole time Tony and I walked to her apartment, I was crying and thinking about my best memory of Kat, something I could maybe eulogize.

All I could think of was how she saved my life, but I had failed to save hers.

I've had diabetes since I was nine. Freaked my parents out pretty bad when that happened. I didn't mean to. I myself didn't know anything was really truly wrong. Just thought I was sick. That's what they thought too. Probably what any normal person would think.

My Mama sometimes says that it's her fault that I'm this way. She thinks I'm really sick, and that it's all her fault because, ya know, she gave birth to me. Dad always tells her I'm not really all that sick, I just have to do extra things to make my body work right (even though this all hits a little closer to home than you might expect, what with one of his best friend's mother having died from it). Then Mom says OK and they go back to being my parents. I'm really not all that sick, I know that now. But I understand her concern.

I think some of that concern rubbed off on me.

My Dad is the complete opposite of my Mom, never concerned about anything. And I think that drives her nuts. I know they say opposites attract, but sometimes it's amazing just how _opposite_ they are. He's funny and talks all the time, and is just this real blue collar guy that grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. Mom grew up on the right side. He was poor, she had a lot of money. His mom was a barmaid, her parents were teachers and socialites. He'd been to jail twice by the time he'd met her, and she'd never spoken to a cop in her life until she met him. If that weren't enough to separate them, they have completely different personalities, too. She's quiet, he's loud. She's strict, he's lenient. She was a hippie; he never quite got over being a JD. Mom hid her emotions away; Dad told you right off the bat if you were pissing him off. They have stuff in common, sure. I mean, they both detest George Bush and love Bob Dylan, but that's kinda small stuff. You wouldn't think the two of them would go for each other, but they did. They're in love. I know that. I still know that to this day.

But me?

Well, in 1999, I was Dally Mathews, stuck in the middle at age twenty-two. Son of Keith and Bridget, brother to Mary and Lisa. I lived and breathed baseball, liked making mixtapes, and was (still am) pathetically diabetic.

That's a story.

Some days, you wake up, and you know something is just _wrong_. You can feel it. And man, did I feel it that morning. That slow, lethargic, sorta-nauseas feeling settling in my stomach. But I'm a trooper, the old man says so, so I bucked up and went to school like the tough-kid ten-year-old I was. I don't think Mom and Dad were too happy about that, but not much can stand between a dumbass kid and whatever the hell it is he's trying to do. And I was a dumbass kid.

But your parents are almost always right. And I should've listened to them that morning and just skipped.

Because it was later that day that things started really feeling wrong. In my stomach. That's the worst place for things to feel wrong. It usually means you're gonna hurl, and throwing up at school is just about the most embarrassing thing there is. I should know: at about two in the afternoon that day, I threw up right on top of my desk. While my teacher, Mrs. Lane, was talking. It was gross and embarrassing and everyone looked at me, but I just took a deep breath and went down to the nurse, and they called Dad at work to come and pick me up. So Dad got there, and he signs me out and tells a couple jokes to try to help me feel better. It worked some, but I still felt like crap. Plus, the whole fourth grade was probably talking about how I threw up in class. You just can't live shit like that down when you're a kid. And that doesn't make anyone feel too great about themselves. Dad looked at me funny as we left the building.

"Why wouldn't you tell us this morning that something was wrong?" He asked. He wasn't mad; just sounded curious. I shrugged. I was a man of few words for about a week there. Not my norm.

"I dunno," I sighed. "I just didn't feel that bad."

I knew Dad didn't believe me, but he didn't say anything. He just dropped it, and drove me home.

Being sick really sucks, but Dad at least tries to keep you entertained for the duration. Or he does whatever you want with you. That day, I made him watch _True_ _Stories_ with me on the couch and _Monty_ _Python_ _and_ _the_ _Holy_ _Grail_. Those are my two favorite movies, and you can never get enough of your fave. That's what Mary would say. It was going pretty good for a while there. Dad told me about how he and mama saw _Holy_ _Grail_ in theaters and he laughed so hard they almost kicked him out. But then I got sick all over again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And…you get the picture.

It was exhausting, to say the least. For the both of us. Dad didn't know what to do to get me to stop. Eventually, we just sorta sat in the bathroom and waited until I would throw up again. And in between, you know what Dad did? He just started talking. Because of course he did. He just started telling stories. So I listened to him tell me all about the time he and my Uncle Sodapop got jailed for doing flips and cartwheels and stuff out in public. It was a pretty funny story. They'd just been kids then, and their parents had to come and bail them out. It's nice hearing Dad talk. He's from Oklahoma, and he's got a really thick accent that just screams _southerner_ to you. If Mom was a Yankee socialite, then Dad was an Okie cowboy. He's got the boots to prove it. When he talks, his speech is full of _y'all'_ s and slurs and stupid sayings that you never would've heard if you didn't know him. I've been hearing it my entire life, and it's rhythmic and it can put you to sleep like _that_. Maybe that was Dad's plan. I dunno. But I was out, just slumped against the bathtub before I knew it.

You know how they say that the sooner you get to sleep, the sooner it'll come? Mom was that _it_ , and she came sooner than I expected, pressing her hands against my cheeks and my neck and my forehead. Dad was standing right next to her, staring down at me with this real serious look on his face. That's not real normal.

"Hey Mom," I said, kinda smiling. Face it: both parents hovering over you like they were can look kinda funny.

"Hi, Dallas," she said back, sounding kinda distracted. She looked at Dad. She whispered something. He nodded. A stellar example of parental communication. They left after that, and I think I must've fallen asleep, because I woke up in my room the next morning.

I went downhill from there. Long story short, that's how I ended up in the hospital for a week, the doctors telling us it was good they got me in when they did because _shit, diabetes is the deadly sort of illness_ , with my Mama crying a lot and my Dad swearing. Dad's a good cuss.

That's Keith Mathews for you. Cussin' all day long.

So I'm thinking about all this as the coroner takes Kat away. I remember not being sad so much because she was dead, but because of what I realized about human beings.

We're all terminal. We only have so much time on this earth, and that's a scary thought. And with my diabetes, I could die...or at least get a limb chopped off. Then I couldn't play baseball anymore. God, my life would be over even though I would still be living.

Maybe that's why I was in Tulsa. My mortality. Maybe that's why I was sitting in Gramma's kitchen, listening to Dad yell at me over the phone.

"Goddammit, Dallas! Jesus fuck...You should've seen your mother when you didn't get here today! God, what do you have to say for yourself?" He shouted.

I looked at Gramma, who just shrugged her shoulders and set another piece of pie in front of me. I sighed.

"Dad, I'm sorry, but I just need to figure some things out. And I think, for some reason, that this is the place to do it," I reasoned. Dad laughed humorlessly.

"Dear _god_ ," he sighed, sounding defeated. "Ya know what? Okay. Okay! Fine. You've got two weeks to... _figure it out_ , Dallas Mathews, and then I'm coming down there myself to fetch your ass. Get it?"

"Got it."

"Good. Now listen, your Mom is in the shower right now, but you better believe me when I say that you better call her soon -"

"Or you'll come fetch my ass?" I cut in. Dad laughed for real this time.

"You bet." He paused before continuing. "Dallas," he continued softly. "Kid, I love you and all, but what do you have to figure out? And why is it in _Tulsa?"_

He asked that like maybe he already knew, but I can't read minds, can I?

"Just...just a lot of things, Dad," I said. "Things."

"Things?" He repeated. "Fine. Talk to you later, kiddo. Love ya."

"You too. Bye, dad."

"Bye."

We hung up.

Gramma stared at me with a mischievous look in her eye.

"What?" I asked. Gramma just laughed.

"Nothing, sweetheart," she said, leaning over to kiss the top of my head. Gramma is Italian, and her accent rolled over me, a comfort. I raised my eyebrows, but she just waved me off. "Finish your pie. I'll go get your room ready." She started to head for the kitchen door, and I started in on my pie.

"Which room will I be in?" I asked with a forkful of pie in my mouth.

I _swear_ I could hear her smiling when she said, "Your father's old room."

XXXXX

I set the notebook aside, leaned back in the desk chair, and heaved a huge sigh, running my hands down my face. Writing is _hard_. Usually. Academic papers? Not fun. Articles for academic journals? You've always got something to prove with those. But this? Writing about my family? Came so easy. I could remember those days vividly – throwing up all over my desk, and the entire fourth grade talking about it for what felt like an eternity. Tony and I finding Katherine, just hanging there, swinging. For the first time, I could sorta remember what my parents looked like back then – Mom, her skin smooth; peasant skirts and sweaters and old jeans the only things she wore, like some sort of pottery instructor. Dad, his hair not grey but red, his body not failing him yet. I could even see Mary and Lisa as they were when they were kids. Mary almost always insisted that her hair be braided all through sixth grade, and when I was diagnosed, Lisa was just five years old and was missing her two front teeth. I remember so clearly Tony and I back in college, sitting around in our apartment, listening to R.E.M. and Talking Heads and Nirvana and They Might Be Giants, caring more about baseball and our upcoming game against Georgetown than schoolwork most of the time.

Those were the days, man. This whole thing with Dad was making me realize just how much I missed them, how I shouldn't've been so eager to get out on my own. I'd give anything to have all of that back.

Anything.

The sound of the office door slamming open and Sammy's _pitter-patter_ of feet broke me out of my reverie, and suddenly he was on my lap.

 _"_ _Oof_ ," I grunted. "Careful, kid."

"Sorry," Sammy whispered, but he was grinning. I smiled back at him.

"What's got you so happy?" I asked. "Just glad to see me?"

Sammy shook his head. "No, Daddy. Gramma sent me to get you."

"Yeah? How come?"

Sammy could barely contain himself. "Your _uncles_ are here!"

XXXXX

 **AN: Sorry to leave you hanging like that, but the boys – our boys – will be appearing first thing next chapter! Yay!**

 **Thanks so much for reading!**


	4. Brothers by Somewhat-Sacred Ritual

**Author's Note: Lots of the gang this chapter and a second entry, so let's just get started!**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

Uncles.

So, that meant Darry, Steve, Soda, and Ponyboy.

I sorta stared at Sammy for a minute, stammering, trying to say something. I hadn't seen them in so long. My heart suddenly ached with how much I had missed them. I'd never needed them more than I needed them right now, not even when I went down to Tulsa.

"Well, let's go see 'em!" I said, actually excited. Sammy hopped off my lap, I grabbed my notebook and pen, and then we were both racing downstairs –

 _Yes._ There they were. I could've wept in relief. These were four of the most prominent people of my childhood. Just always, _always_ there. They _were_ Dad's brothers. They were, none of us had ever doubted that. They all came from crazy backgrounds, but they grew the fuck up and become five dignified, handsome-looking men that I had looked up to my entire life. They were the apex of manhood, and I aspired to be like them.

I realize that all sounds really corny, but – well – screw you. My Dad was dying. Blanket excuse for everything right there. Just…screw you. That's all I've got.

"Oh, would you look at that – Dallas Mathews in the flesh!"

All four of them were crowded by the front door with suitcases at their feet, my mother was flitting around, Lisa and Mary were giving out hugs, and Uncle Darry had Dad by the shoulders and the two of them were having what looked what a pretty private conversation. Mom saw Sammy and beckoned him over to her so she could make official introductions, even though they'd all come up to see him when he was born. And it was Uncle Soda who had called me out, and he grinned at me the entire time I came down the stairs. He was the one most like Dad, the one just as good-humored as he was. As soon as I was close enough, he wrapped his arms around me and squeezed tight.

"It's good to see you," he murmured into my ear. He put me at arms-length and smiled sadly at me. "How are you?"

I smirked. "I'm okay."

He patted my cheek. "Yeah, yeah. _Sure_ ," Soda grinned, like he didn't believe me. He was right not to.

There was a lot of noise. Everyone was talking to somebody, and just…them being here, while all of this was happening…it was dizzying. I hadn't seen them all together for so long…we hadn't been together in _so long…_.

"It's good to see you," Steve had said, clapping my shoulder.

"I know this is hard, Dallas," Pony had told me in a low tone.

"How're you holdin' up?" Darry had asked me, worry evident in his eyes.

It was too much. All of them here with us. To say goodbye, even though they didn't know when exactly that would happen.

"It's so good to see them," Mary sighed, the three of us kids clumped together in a knot. I could only nod.

"I'm glad they're here," Lisa whispered. "They sure do fill up the house, don't they?"

"They sure do," I agreed.

"Alright, _alright_ ," Dad called over the din, and everyone went quiet so we could listen to the dying man. "Let's not just stand here, yeah? C'mon, clear out."

Everything had happened in a matter of only a few minutes, and suddenly everyone was headed towards the living room. My face felt hot, and I felt a hand come down on my shoulder. I turned my head and saw Dad smirking at me.

"You okay?" He asked, laughter in his voice. But he sounded so tired, just so _tired_. "You look a bit overwhelmed."

I nodded. "Yeah," I breathed.

"Yeah, you're okay, or yeah, you're overwhelmed."

"…both."

Dad laughed outright that time. "Oh, Dally," he sighed fondly, and I wondered briefly if he was really talking to me or to my namesake. "Now listen to me – I know you've known these guys your whole life, but…" Dad trailed off with a sigh and lowered his voice. "You haven't seen them like this."

"Whaddyah mean?" I asked, my voice as soft as his.

"They seem okay right now," he whispered, "but soon enough, they're not gonna be"

I felt something rising in my throat, and I wanted to say, _I won't be either! None of will be! You can't just leave, you asshole, not now! Not when I still need you!_ But instead I asked, "What's that s'posed to mean?"

"It means you ain't ever seen them grieve, kid. You ain't seen them low like I have. And it kills me to make them hurt like I'm goin' to."

"Dad, that's not your fault."

He didn't look sure, but he gave me a lame smile and put an arm around my shoulder, cocking his head towards the living room. I just let him lead me there, with my notebook and pen in hand, ready to observe. Because that's what a good historian does – observe. And a good historian knows that they're simply an observer. That that's all any of us are. Observers.

So here's what I observed.

 _Darry: Pretty sure Darry's been grey since…1987; so…still grey; he keeps looking at Dad when he's not looking – poor guy; voice sounds the least like a chain-smoker's; when given the choice between Miller Lite and the local beer, he chooses whisky._

 _Soda: Still probably the most handsome of the bunch; could probably pick up a twenty-year-old without trying; how is he not someone's sugar daddy by now? (note to self: ask him that, he'll probably get a kick out of it)._

 _Steve: God, he really DOES sorta look like an old Jewish man; he SOUNDS like an old Jewish man; I'm saying Jewish too much already; I wonder how Aunt Evie is; looks more dignified in glasses than I thought he would, so good for him, I owe Lisa five bucks for losing that bet._

 _Pony: Has this guy ever NOT looked bookish? Jesus, if you searched for "professor" on Google Images, a picture of him is what would pop up; not quite sixty yet, so I guess he isn't really a "senior citizen" like the rest of these clowns; he grew a beard, but everyone still treats him like a kid – but I guess Mary and I do the same thing to Lisa; how was he ever the quiet one of the group? Guess being a teacher changed that_

 _General: How do all of these assholes still have full heads of hair? That shouldn't be possible._

I didn't observe anything about Dad because I'd already noticed too much. I did, however, count how many times he coughed during conversation (twenty), and noticed how he stopped after one beer. He probably shouldn't've been drinking at _all,_ but we're in the business of small mercies now.

"Can't say I can hold my liquor like I used to," Dad sighed ruefully, leaning back and kicking his feet up. "It ain't like the old days."

"You can say that again," Steve sighed.

"It ain't like the old days."

Steve flipped him off.

"Ooh, that reminds me," Soda drawled, coming back into the room with more beer for everyone, "of that time Darry and Two-Bit came home absolutely _trashed_ – 'member that?"

Darry and Dad exchanged an amused look. "Which time?" Dad asked, not breaking eye contact with Darry and trying to hold back laughter. Soda laughed too, because that's what Soda does.

"That time with the begonias."

Even Ponyboy's eyes went wide at that. I grabbed up my pen, ready.

XXXXX

 _Entry #2_

 _1964_

 _My father and his best friend were apparently dumbasses in high school. I don't see why I should be surprised by this, because my father is still sorta a dumbass NOW. But Darry? He's not. Not in the entire time that I've known him has he ever been anything but level-headed and serious. Not that that's exactly a bad thing – actually, it's probably a pretty good thing. He and Dad balance each other out. The same way Soda and Steve – two other member of this crazy gang – are total opposites. Some sort of weird magnetism. But even with my Dad's influence, you would think that Darry would've been able to maintain some self-control._

 _Well, I guess we're all eighteen once. And I guess that was Darry's philosophy that night because he went drinking with my father, who was sixteen at the time. A senior and sophomore in high school tooling around Tulsa's seedier side on a Saturday night, looking to get absolutely trashed._

 _Yeah. We're all eighteen or sixteen or whatever once._

 _We're all sorta dumbasses, really._

 _Anyway._

 _The two of them have spent the night drinking, and they're working on getting home. Back then, even when Darry's parents were alive, their house was still the place to crash, so that's where they were headed. Which maybe wasn't the best idea, because Darry's mother – Maggie Curtis – was waiting up for them._

 _On the front porch._

 _In her house coat._

 _Darry was mortified to say the least. Mortified and drunk. Guess that wasn't a good combo because the moment he saw her, he bent over and threw up all over her begonias. Dad is reported to have groaned, said "Oh, fuck you, man!" and bent over to do the same, the two of them puking side-by-side like only the truest of friends do._

XXXXX

"Dallas."

I rolled over in bed and blearily opened my eyes, only to see my mother standing over me. I have expected her to tell me that it was time to get up and get ready for school. My mind kicked into auto-pilot, frantically searching my brain to figure out if I had a US History test today (easy) or a calc test (not so easy) and if I thought practice was gonna be easy today or totally kick my ass. But then Mom started to come into focus, and instead of my young mother, I saw a dignified sixty-something woman standing over me.

Right.

Not a school morning.

She didn't look too happy, so for a second there, a sick feeling went through me and I thought _oh, shit, it happened_ , so I sat up slowly and leaned against the headboard. She didn't look like she'd been crying though…"What's up, Mom?"

"I need you to get up. I'm taking your father to the doctor."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why?" I asked. "You already know what's gonna happen."

Mom sighed and rolled her eyes. Classic annoyed Bridget Mathews right there. "I know that, Dally honey. But they wanna see him. So get up."

I groaned and threw off the covers. "But _why?"_ I whined.

"Because you're the last one and your uncles need entertaining."

I rolled my eyes as I got out of bed. I briefly considered changing but shrugged, deciding I just didn't really care right now if people saw me in sweats. "They're grown men," I grumbled. "They can entertain themselves."

Mom scoffed. " _Sure._ Ya know, the first time Steve and Soda came up here by themselves, they got lost."

I snorted. "They did?"

Mom hummed, nodding her head. "They sure did." She walked over to the bed, and…god, she was _making it._ Of course. Mom didn't like things out of place. Messy was fine. Out of place wasn't. There's a difference. "Just walking from your daddy's bar to here. I would say they got distracted, but there really isn't much to see in this neighborhood to distract you. Not like we live on Broadway or something."

"Fair point." I sighed and ran a hand through my hair, laughing a little. "How long 'til they showed up?"

"Oh, a couple hours." Mom smiled at the memory. "We were talking about it last night. None of us could get to sleep after you put Sammy to bed. And the girls had already called it a night. So the six of us stayed up a while, just talking. And, uh, that was one of the things we talked about."

She was sitting on the bed, just smiling to herself. I sat beside her. "What else did you talk about?" I asked.

Mom shrugged. "Oh, all sorts of things. That, for one. Pony told us how he's taking some time off this quarter at Northwestern, sorta like you are. The ranch is doing well – Fran's running it while Soda's out of town. Everybody's real good. Um. I went to bed after a while and the five of them…well, they stayed up." Mom just left it at that. Because she couldn't have known what was said between them after she left. And because she had probably done that on purpose, to give them time together.

"Hey, I'm ready, Honey Bee." Dad had poked his head in, and Mom and I both looked over at him. He raised an eyebrow. "I interruptin' somethin'?"

Mom and I glanced at each other for a moment, but then Mom was up like a flash and making her way over to him, surprising him with a kiss. "Of course not," she sighed, looking him over for any noticeable imperfections, straightening a collar that didn't need straightening. I smiled at them. It's not something I would have appreciated when I was younger – younger being maybe even just a month younger. But now, with everything, every word and gesture between my parents felt so much more important than it had ever had in the past. They kissed all the time around the house, and us kids would get grossed out by it. Dad liked holding her hand in public, even if she wasn't a fan. She'd been straightening his ties and ironing his clothes for forty years. He'd been running his hand through her hair and watching her out of the corner of his eye and fixing her car for her for just as long.

They really loved each other. And that made me feel horrible. Because they were about to lose each other.

"What're you starin' at, kid?"

I snapped out of it and saw Dad looking at me funny. I shook my head.

"Nothin', old man. Have a good appointment."

Dad rolled his eyes. "We'll try, kid, we'll try."

XXXXX

 _Entry #3_

 _I know this isn't exactly a specific story, but I want whoever is reading this to know how much my parents loved each other. Love each other. I don't know if I should be using past or present tense anymore. As I'm writing this, my father is still here, but he won't be soon enough._

 _But you have to know how much they loved each other. They were together for about fifty years. They were high school sweethearts. They survived that long. I don't think us kids appreciated that growing up. Growing up, we took advantage of them. Of a love we figured was endless. We all figured that Dad was always going to be here, even though he sometimes joked about being the first to die. We took advantage of the fact that our parents love us. We always knew that love would be there no matter what we did. And we always knew that they would love each other, even when we had friends that had parents that got divorced, that told us two Christmases were fun and they got twice the presents. We didn't want two Christmases – we wanted our parents, together, keeping this family whole._

 _My parents don't talk much about the early days of their relationship. We know they met in school, my mother's first day of school in Tulsa. I know they pissed each other off to no end at first. Know they kinda sorta hated each other. I don't exactly know what it is that brought them together, but somehow, they fell for each other. Opposites attract. Hate equals love. Those sorts of philosophies come to mind. And I know that there was a brief time while Dad was in Vietnam that they weren't together. But in 1972, they met again, that September, they were engaged. Says a lot. And over the next nine years, they had the three of us – Mary, Dallas, and Lisa. They moved to Manhattan. They bought a house. Mom had her plays. Dad had his bar. Dad still had his bar even after Mom gave up the plays to take care of us kids. Their lives were stressful. They were two kids who had somehow created these even littler kids and lived in the house they still live in now. We weren't rich growing up, either. And nothing was perfect. But no one's life is. No one's childhood or parents are perfect._

 _But the three of us assumed they were. We just assumed they were. Perfect, that is. But they're not. They're just people, too. We see that now. And we love them more for it._

 _I wonder, sometimes, how the two of them made it all work. How Mom was able to get dinner on the table each night. How Dad managed to pay for everything. How they managed to wrangle the three of us and get us to school each day. How they figured out who had to stay home when one of us was sick. How Mom could even begin to put up with PTA mothers and why she was the room mother in elementary school. How Dad could keep his good humor even when things were hard. How Mom made lunches for us each day. How Dad would work late hours, and would stay up even later to ream us if we came in past curfew._

 _How did they even have time for each other? A love this deep, and we took so much time away from them. I don't know if I should feel guilty or not because it's not like I could help all of it._

 _It's been about fifty years that they've been together now. The world we live in now is not the same world the fell in love in. But they're still here, together, for as long as Dad's illness will allow. If I were them, I'd be furious at the idea of the universe tearing us apart._

XXXXX

"What's that?"

I looked up. Uncle Pony was standing over me, glass of orange juice in hand. He and the rest of Dad's friends had no problem with raiding our fridge, that was for sure. Well – Mom and Dad's fridge.

"Nothin'," I shrugged. "Where is everybody?"

He pointed to the screen door. "Outside. That kid of yours got a lot of energy."

I smirked, closing my notebook and setting it on the side table. "He does."

"How's he been?" Pony asked from behind his OJ.

I shrugged. "Okay. He understands that she's not comin' back."

"Good riddance to her, then," Pony said. "She's an idiot to have left a guy like you."

"You have to say that," I sighed. "Because you love me."

Pony chuckled. I raised an eyebrow. "Don't you? Cuz I gotta be honest, man, with all of this happening, I need all the love I can get."

"'Course I do," he said. "What're you writing about?"

I hesitated. I sorta didn't want to tell him. This was between me and Dad, something special. But to be fair, I _had_ been writing about him... "Dad and I have started this…project. He was all knotted up because he realized Sammy was never gonna be able to get to really know him, so I'm recording a bunch of stories while you guys are up here, so he can know who he was."

Pony nodded. "Hell of an undertaking. You know how many stories your father has, don't you?"

I snorted. "Yeah, hundreds, prolly."

"Dallas, I think you're prolly off by a few…thousand."

XXXXX

 **AN: Thanks for reading. If you feel so inclined, feel free to leave me a fave, follow, or review (yes, please!) and let me know what you're thinking!**


	5. These Difficult Times

**Author's Note: Here's chapter five! Thank you for the continued reads and support. Don't be afraid to let me know what you're thinking!**

 **Things are starting to get heavier. Two-Bit…isn't really Two-Bit in this chapter. But it's all by design.**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

 _Entry #4_

 _When my father was dying, all of us converged on the family house, the place where us kids had grown up. We'd visited over the years since we'd left, of course. But this felt different, and not just because Dad was dying. I mean, yeah, that was a factor, and it made being in the house feel weird. None of us – the kids, I mean – had ever really been so near death before. Sat with the idea for longer than was necessary. Yes, we knew it was an inevitable fate for all of us, but it wasn't something to dwell on. But my parents welcomed death into the household like an old friend; let him press himself into the corners and follow us into every room, not saying anything, but always there._

 _The house is old, anyways. It's possible Dad won't be the first to die in this place, amongst its narrow halls and creaky wooden floors. But his death is the only one I care about. The only one any of us care about -_

"– Gramma said we can go to the zoo and see the animals and –"

Sam's voice broke me out of my rhythm. I couldn't write with him squealing and talking a mile a minute, not ever, so I sighed, shut the notebook, and put everything away. This task was becoming more and more daunting the more I thought about it, with the more I actually wrote, and part of me wanted to curse my father for ever assigning me this task. It was starting to seem just about impossible. Honestly, a break was welcome. Sammy came running into the house at lunchtime, everyone else trailing right behind him, and he was talking a mile a minute, his face ruddy and animated and the happiest I'd seen since his mother left him. Pony and I joined everyone in the kitchen and sat down at the table, watching him flit around everybody as Mary started to put together something to eat.

" – went to see the Yankees play in the summer and we got really big Cokes and Daddy and I took our gloves but we didn't get any balls but he says we can go again next season –"

Darry raised impressed eyebrows and said, "Breathe, kid. I can barely understand a word yer sayin', yer talkin' so fast." Sammy took a deep breath and hopped into a seat next to me. He was getting a lot of attention, and clearly loving every minute of it. Mary set a sandwich in front of him.

It was funny – everyone had rallied around my kid, it seemed. I guess it was an easy (easier) distraction to hang around him than it was to openly acknowledge my father dying before our very eyes.

"Daddy, 'member when we saw the Yankees over the summer?" He asked, simultaneously stuffing a PBJ into his mouth, which Mary made sure to gently reprimand him for ( _You'll choke, kiddo)._

"I sure do. I miss Mike Piazza," I sighed, thinking of my favorite player from back in the day. Even though he was a Met, not a Yankee. He even got a song written about him by that European band – Belle and Sebastian? That sounds right.

"Turnin' your kid into a baseball junkie there, Dally?" Steve asked as they all sat down, pulling up chairs because we didn't have enough. The dining room had a large table – Mom was quite the hostess in her day, and probably still was, though I hadn't really kept up with any of that stuff lately. I just remember her hosting large groups of women while they sat around and gabbed while they ate or played cards. Mom was some sort of Junior Leaguer, Daughter of the American Revolution, bridge-playing Yenta. I guess it was all just carry-over from the life she was raised into. I'll say this, though – she had the most blue-collar husband of the bunch. All of her friends' husbands were bankers or businessmen or stockbrokers or what have you. And I may have overheard a few of those women over the years whisper to each other that _Bridget Mathews could probably do better_ , but I don't know if they ever said anything to Mom like that. I sure hope not. If they could just see how broken up she is now, they'd understand that there was no way in hell _either_ of them could've done better.

"Sure am, Randle," I grinned. "America's pastime –greatest game ever played."

"But _football_ is _America's_ game," Darry teased. He'd been a big-wig football player back in his day. "Take him to a Giants game yet? Or even the Jets? They're in season."

"Oh, maybe sometime –"

The slamming of the front door caught everybody's attention, cutting me off. Someone stomped upstairs, and another set of footsteps – Mom's, definitely Mom's – were coming towards us. Everyone was trading nervous glances. Mom entered the kitchen with her hands on her hips, bringing down the room instantly, everything and everybody tense. "My brood – upstairs. Now."

XXXXX

"Dad, why'd you call this family meeting?"

Mom and Dad were both sitting in bed, Dad looking like he did when I saw him when I first got here, and Mom sitting right next to him on the edge of the bed. Dad had looked well this morning – as well as he could – but was looking pretty down just about now. I looked over at Lisa and then at Mary, who both looked as concerned as I felt. And it was a bad feeling. It was blooming in the pit of my stomach, crawling up into my throat like it wanted to choke me. I was afraid.

I was so afraid.

I hadn't been that afraid in a long time. (But Life is all about upping its game.)

"Don't worry," he grumbled. "Your uncles will get their turn at this eventually."

"Your father," Mom began with a sigh, glancing at Dad out of the corner of her eye, "said he didn't want to draw attention to himself."

"Really?" Mary snorted, at the same time Lisa said, "Well, you did a pretty good job of that anyway, with the entrance you made down there, Mom."

Both our parents shot them withering looks.

"Look," Dad said in his tired voice, "we just wanted to tell you what happened at the doctor, okay? Without a million questions from the peanut gallery."

He neglected to mention that he's usually part of said peanut gallery. I had no idea why Dad was being so secretive with them – he never had been.

"So what's up?" I asked. "Besides the obvious," I amended, sticking my hands in my pockets and shifting awkwardly. I felt like we were all about to get scolded for something.

Mom grabbed a stack of papers off of the nightstand and held them in both hands, straightening them obsessively. She didn't seem to know how to start. This was probably all hitting her pretty hard and fast, so I couldn't blame her. The rest of us just waited on her.

But Dad's not patient.

So he took over.

"Look – like Dal said, it's obvious I'm dyin'. There's uh, a whole lotta stuff we found out. About how long it's gonna take and all that."

"How long?" Mary asked, voice clinical. Dad shrugged.

"Couple weeks, at most."

"Oh, Daddy." Mary shot her a dismissive look. Because her expression of love was just too much for her for the moment. Dad tried to smile at Lisa, but couldn't quite. Lisa sunk into the rocking chair in the corner of the room. I think it was the one that used to be in her nursery.

"I know," he sighed. "I know, kid. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Dad," I jumped in. Dad opened his mouth to say something else, but he didn't seem to have anything, so he shut it.

"Your father is still refusing hospice," Mom sighed, shooting Dad another frustrated look, "and he doesn't want to stay in the hospital. So that leaves us." She fingered through the papers again. "Mary, you probably already know about a lot of this stuff, so that'll be a big help."

"So basically," I began, already hearing my voice start to roll into a low drawl that I usually reserved for teaching, "you're going to be giving us a crash course in caring for someone who's actively dying."

"Sounds about right."

"We also gathered you here to talk about our _feelings_ ," Dad said wryly with a sarcastic smile. "Because apparently, that's somethin' we need to do, too. We need to _appreciate our time together while we have it_ and express our deep, abiding love for each other."

" _Jesus_ , Keith." Lisa snorted, and I know that I at least rolled my eyes – Mary probably did, too. "Ya know, it wouldn't kill you not to be a total asshole about all this."

"You're right. That's not what's gonna kill me. That's the cancer's job."

My mother – when she's pissed – is definitely something to be feared. So's Dad, don't get me wrong. But Mom? You better watch out. I could tell Dad was testing her in every single way, pushing every button, but she let him when by popping up off the bed with her papers and saying, "You know what? Fuck you, Keith." She shoved the papers into my hands and stormed out of the room.

Obviously, the appointment hadn't gone very well.

I started flipping through the papers, which all said things like, "The Importance of Communication Leading Up to the Inevitable"; "What to Expect in the Final Days"; "Your Role as a Caretaker."

I could see why Mom was upset.

I shot Lisa a look, and she seemed to know exactly what I was saying and stood up to follow me. We left Mary behind to reprimand the appropriately remorseful dying man (" _Jesus, Dad, she's having a hard time with this too…)_ and found Mom standing at the top of the staircase, staring down it.

"You okay, Mom?" Lisa asked. Mom nodded to the bottom of the stairs.

"Ask them."

Lisa and I looked down the gap between the banisters, and yep –

All four of them had heard the whole damn thing.

XXXXX

Dad, obviously, wasn't working anymore. He apparently hadn't been working for a while – he'd thought he was just sick before he found out what was _really_ wrong, and you don't want even the neighborhood's most trusted bartender hacking up bloody phlegm into your beer. So he'd left it in the care of the second bartender he kept around until everything got sorted out. Actually, that was sorta a pressing issue, what would happen to the bar, because it's not like any of us kids had ever expressed interest in it. Unfortunately for Dad, we all went into fairly high-brow professions. We'll see what happens.

I can't count how many times over the years that Dad and, well, just about anybody and everybody made _Cheers_ jokes and references about Dad's business. I think it mostly had to do with the fact that he had about the same amount of regulars coming in just about each day, and us kids know them just about as well as Dad's closest pals.

"I don't know how I feel about you allowing our children to hang around a bunch of barflies," Mom used to complain. "What sort of influence is that?"

"Aw, they ain't bad guys," Dad would say, always dismissing what he thought were trivial concerns. "They're harmless."

And they were – harmless, that is. I guess they really cared about Dad, too, because one afternoon, five guys showed up on our front porch, and Mom had the pleasure of answering the door for them. They were an odd mix of blue-and-white collar, clean-shaven and bearded, educated and not. Reportedly, Mom answered the door to them, and the one in the front – Johnson, that's his name – was holding his hat in his hands like he was the one delivering bad news.

"Mrs. Mathews."

"Bridget's fine," she reminded them, probably not for the first time in the time she'd known them.

"Bridget," Johnson corrected. "We heard –"

Mom shook her head. "Fellas, I don't know what you've heard, but you heard wrong. My husband's not dead yet."

And as she tells it, they just gaped at her before awkwardly leaving without saying another word, and Mom slammed the door.

Mom wasn't happy about all this, for whatever reason. In fact, she seemed pretty angry. She and Sammy were in the kitchen together, and he was "helping" her make dinner. Mom seemed to like the company, but with everyone but Dad in the kitchen, she also seemed a bit overwhelmed.

Actually, Mom just seemed a bit overwhelmed _period_ , especially without Dad around.

"I don't know what we're gonna do with that bar," Mom grumbled, angrily chopping vegetables. Soda plucked a bit of celery off the cutting board and popped it in his mouth. Mom shot him a look, but she wasn't able to stand up to that smile he shot her.

"Why don't he go on and will it to somebody?" Soda asked. "That's how he got it in the first place."

"Yeah, carry on the tradition," Pony piped in, looking like he thought it was amusing. Mom apparently didn't think so.

"That was a weird situation, and you know it. I don't want to just _give it_ to somebody. Tom" – he's the previous owner of the bar, and when he died, willed Dad said bar –"was a nice guy and all" – she was probably lying about that, but I let it slide –"and it's certainly been good to us over the years, but _Jesus_ , guys, we're already giving up enough."

Everyone just sorta sat with that for a while. Mom was quietly directing Sammy as he continued trying to help her. "We'll figure it out, Mom," Lisa eventually said. "We will."

"There's so much to figure out, though!" She went on, and I could tell she was everywhere from pissed to overwhelmed to pissed again. She heaved a long sigh. "Sorry, sorry," she mumbled. Mom took control over whatever it was Sammy was stirring.

"Don't be sorry," Soda said softly. "We get it."

And we all knew they got it better than everybody.

XXXXX

 _Entry #5_

 _The Curtis Brothers™ have been a part of Dad's life for…ever. And mine. And Grandma's and Aunt Mary's and Aunt Lisa's and everybody's. And they know tragedy. Their parents were killed in an auto wreck in 1966, and from that point on, Darry was in charge of raising two boys. And that's not easy – I have trouble just raising the one. The three of them lost two of their best, lifelong friends later that year. Ponyboy got caught up in a manslaughter case when he was just fourteen. Sodapop – who is essentially a walking Tom Petty song – was cheated on, drafted, left by his wife, and never remarried._

 _They've all had it harder than they deserve._

 _But they're still here._

 _I'm a bit jealous. Of their kids. Because…you know why._

 _Sammy, some day, I'll tell you more. I'll tell you why all of this was so hard, if you haven't already pieced it together reading this. You deserve to know the family secrets, which were hidden from me for a long, long time. Which wasn't right. So know this: if somehow, by the time you're reading this, one of those Curtis Brothers are still around, give them a call. They're good men, some of the best. Some of the last vestiges of a bygone era. They know me as well as anybody else does, and if you're ever afraid to ask me – ask them. They'll understand._

XXXXX

"It kinda spooked her today, those guys coming over," Mary later told us. Lisa and I exchanged wary glances with each other. I sighed.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Mary mumbled. "Um. I, uh. Well, I guess she _is_ taking this pretty hard."

"I'll bet," Lisa said softly, but I could hear the _well, DUH_ in her voice that Mary probably couldn't. "Not only is Dad dying, but she's got _eight people_ in her house."

"She _did_ invite them –"

"I know, Mary," Lisa interrupted impatiently, "but she did all that for Dad, not for herself. Not for _us_. I don't know if you've noticed, but he seems pretty glad we're all here. Even though he's never gonna say so."

Lisa knows Dad well. Selfishly, I hoped she didn't know him better than I did. But she definitely knew him better than Mary. But Mary knows Mom. They tell each other everything. Lisa and I usually confided in Dad. Mom was enigmatic. And Dad wasn't exactly always an open book, but he was easier to read than Mom. But Mom and Mary got each other in a way that Dad and Mary just didn't.

If you ask me, I think Mary was jealous.

XXXXX

Soda cornered me that night.

I thought I was the only one still up. I was sitting in the living room reading by one yellow light with the TV on some late-night cable access cooking show when he waltzed in and sat down on the other couch.

"Heard about your little project."

I cocked an eyebrow and frowned. "How?"

He shrugged. "Pony told me." Soda smirked. "He tells me everything. Kinda always has. If you wanna keep a secret, kid, don't tell my kid brother a thing about it."

I sighed. "It wasn't really a _secret_ , per se, but it wasn't something I was gonna just advertise to everybody."

"Good. Cuz I sorta told Steve and Darry, too. Cuz the same rule applies to me – I tell the two of _them_ everything." Sodapop looked so amused with himself that I wanted to scream. He thought he was so _funny_ , the same way Dad did. "I think it's a good idea. Cuz then, you can't forget, not completely. You'll forget a little."

My eyes stung a bit. "Yeah?"

He nodded. "Yeah. It ain't always a bad thing. There're things out there I wish I could completely wipe from my mind," he said grandly. I believed him, too. Two weeks after he turned eighteen, Uncle Soda got drafted. He, Dad, and Uncle Steve had all gone. But Dad was so seriously injured that his TOD ended before it should've – Steve and Soda served the full tour. They didn't talk about it much. But I'd heard that Soda'd had the worst of it. "But in this case, I'd imagine forgetting even a bit of 'im is gonna suck."

I didn't tell him that I had already forgotten what Dad had looked like before. Before all of this. When I closed my eyes and pictured him, he just looked sick. Even with pictures all over the house – of us kids, of our parents when they were young, of family members and friends – it was hard to remember. And there really _were_ pictures all over this house. Going up the staircase were baby pictures, wedding pictures (I'd noticed that mine had been removed, which made me both smile and my heart ache), some in Kodachrome.

"I know it'll suck for me," Soda went on, lazily lounging on the couch, all sprawled out. He wasn't looking at me, but he had his hands behind his head and was staring up at the ceiling. "I keep forgetting why we're up here."

I swallowed roughly. "I'm sorry all this is happening. I know the five of you…"

"We've been through a lot," Sodapop finished for me, but I don't think that was what I was going to say. I think I was just going to say something along the lines of them being tight and all that, which sounds lame, now that I think about it. "When my parents died, it's like I immediately forgot what they looked like, sounded like. And all of us will tell you the same thing – all our parents are dead. It sucks, kid."

"It does," I said softly. Uncle Soda sat up and gave me a grim smile.

"And I know it ain't fair, kiddo. What's happenin' to him. Hell, Steve's been smokin' since he was eleven years old. And Pony's struggled to quit for years. I don't see why this is happenin' to your old

"Didn't mean to bring you down like this, kid. But I've just been thinkin' about it, is all. And this thing you're doin', it's real good."

I nodded. "Thanks, Soda."

He just ducked his head, and I knew that was that. I turned off the TV and was getting ready to head upstairs when all of a sudden, "Two-Bit, man, I can't _believe_ you!", and Steve and Pony came barging into the living room, Dad and Darry hot on their trail. They all crowded under the archway, and Sodapop and I both just stared at them. I wondered if this is what it was like, back in their day, the five of them bursting into rooms like this completely unannounced, ready to fuck shit up.

Actually, I don't know if I like thinking of these guys as teenagers and _fucking shit up_.

"What's goin' on?" Soda asked. "Obviously, Two-Bit didn't die" – someone snorted – "so what's up?"

Steve crossed his arms over his chest, and Pony stood next to him looking annoyed. They were an unlikely pair, the two of them. Apparently, growing up, they didn't get along. And if you read Uncle Pony's book, then you know he's been known to refer to Uncle Steve as tacky, cocky, and when he was fourteen, at least, sometimes _hated_ him. But here they were together, and Dad looked about as annoyed with them as they just looked plain _annoyed._

"We just learned somethin' real interestin', Sodapop."

"Yeah?" Soda asked. Steve cocked his head back, gesturing to Dad.

"Yeah, man. Turns out this clown here ain't got a will."

XXXXX

 **AN: And we'll leave it there. More about this unfinished will next chapter.**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	6. Mother's Cherry Pie

**Author's Note: Hey guys! Welcome back.**

 **Alright, so I know this story is already OCs galore, but I'm about to hit you with two more. This chapter is kinda two worlds colliding – Dallas's world and the world we know with our boys. Twelve characters in one scene together? I'm…insane. But what's new?**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

"Two-Bit, how could you _not_ have a will?"

This was news to me. Yeah, Mom had said that they had no idea what was going to happen to the bar, but other than that, I just assumed that there was a will. And did my father have anything to will to us? It's not like Mom wouldn't be around. His children are grown. We don't live on some large estate or have a lot of money. We're just…people. And Dad didn't need to give us any more than he already had.

The five of them were huddled now around the kitchen table, with one yellow light dimly glowing above them. I felt a bit awkward hovering under the archway, my book held against my body and watching them scrap with each other.

"Dunno, Steven. This whole dying thing sorta came up very suddenly, ya know. Haven't really thought about it."

Steve shook his head. "You should've had one anyways. You mean to tell me you didn't write one up when Mary was born?"

"…no."

"You're an idiot," Darry mumbled. "You're really an idiot."

"Thanks. Way to berate the dying man, Darrel."

"I'm not sorry."

"You oughta be."

Alright, I wasn't gonna deal with this. "So if you didn't have a will, who would us kids have gone to if you and Mom had died?"

They all looked up at me at the sound of my voice, looking like they wanted to ask me to leave, like I was intruding on something. But nobody said anything. Dad pursed his lips in thought. Everyone else watched him expectantly. For a moment there, it seemed as if Mom and Dad had actually never put _any thought at all_ into what would happen if they'd died. Darry was already shaking his head at him.

"I think y'all were going either to my sister or to Soda."

"Your _sister?"_ Pony asked, astounded, at the same time Sodapop exclaimed, "Me? Why?"

Dad just shrugged. "Well, I can't remember which. But it makes sense – Sadie's, ya know, my sister. And Soda just has Francine, and they'd be down in Tulsa with all y'all. Didn't want to saddle the rest of ya with any more kids."

"Yeah, but you'd saddle your sister with three more when she already has _six_."

"Shuddup, Steve. So are we gonna do this or not?"

"You wanna do it now?" Soda asked. "It's late, man."

"Since you're all insisting, yeah. And it's not like I got much time left to do it anyways."

"Alright, then," Pony sighed. "Better late than never, I guess. You got any paper?"

"Do I have any _paper?"_ Dad repeated.

"I do," I piped in again. "Upstairs."

"Thought that was _sacred project paper_ ," Soda smirked. I just shrugged.

"We just need to get it down for now. We can copy it later."

"Fine then," Dad sighed, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, staring hard at me. "Let's do this." When I came back with one of my legal pads and sat down at the table with them, they were already squabbling, which probably shouldn't've been a surprise.

"Dibs on the estate," Soda said, which instantly led to Ponyboy saying, "The _whole_ estate? You know that means everything, right? All of his junk?"

"Yeah, and there's still gonna be somebody livin' here," Dad reminded them. "My _wife_. We ain't _both_ dyin'."

"Alright, then I want all his money."

"You can't get all his money!" Steve bitched. "You don't need it!"

"Horses are expensive, man."

"Yeah, yeah. Well, if you get all his money, then I get all the family heirlooms. You know – the rings, gold-encrusted china set, family portraits and jewels, maps to hidden treasure. That's gotta be worth somethin'."

"Who do y'all think I am?" Dad laughed. "The Queen of England?"

"Your wife _does_ come from a well-heeled family –"

Dad snorted. "Yes, and our combined wealth comes to about…well shit, it's really been just me workin' all these years, so _not much_."

I clicked my pen over and over, my eyes ping-ponging between all of them. No estate. No money. No family jewels. From a legal standpoint, there was only one thing left. So, really, what this was coming down to was… "The bar," I said. They all stopped talking. "Are you gonna do with it what the previous owner did?"

Dad leaned forward onto the table on his forearms. "You mean, let the guy I have in charge now have the place?" I nodded. Dad cocked his head. "No. I don't think that's what I'm gonna do. I don't want this to become some sort of Dread Pirate Roberts situation. Your mother is gonna be alone – we need to do something about that."

"Shift the ownership over to her," Darry mumbled, his head propped up against his hand. "It can be under her name. She still benefits."

"I _could_ do that." Dad bit on his lip. " _But_ …"

"But what?" Steve asked, obviously trying to hide irritation. Dad cut his eyes to mine.

"What if you took it over?" He asked, eyes squinting in thought. I sat back and instantly started shaking my head.

"Dad, _no_. I'd have _no idea_ what I was doing. And I have a job, remember? A job that I _like_."

"A job that comes with a whole lotta painful reminders," Dad parried, eyebrow cocked. I scowled at him. That was an open wound and he knew it. I don't think he was _trying_ to be an asshole, but – ya know what? I'm not gonna get into it right now.

"Think about it," he told me gently, and I backed off a bit, but I was still sorta pissed. Dad sat back and went back to addressing the table. "Alright – who wants the credenza?"

XXXXX

 _Entry #6_

 _In case you were wondering, this is how the final will and testament shook out:_

 _Nobody gets anything until Mom dies. So we may be waiting a while._

 _But there is something for you, Sammy._

XXXXX

I have this best friend. Tony. He and I grew up together. Next-door neighbors. Played baseball together as far back as I can remember. We went to Syracuse together. In short, we're buddies, like my Dad and his, and him finding out that Dad was dying was a hard blow to him. Tony didn't really have a father growing up.

That's a long story, too.

But not one for right now.

"Why're you just callin' me now?" He asked from his end, and I sighed into the phone. Last night kinda shook me to my core, helping my father with his will. And when that happens, Tony's the first person I call. He visited me in the hospital every time I was there. I called him when I found Katherine's suicide note. I called him when I found out about Dallas Winston. I called him when Sammy was born. And I called him when my wife left me. I don't know why I had waited so long to tell him that Dad was dying.

"I'm sorry, man," I sighed. "It's all just happened so fast."

"Yeah, yeah. It's okay, Dal. I get it."

"Could you come see him?"

"'Course, buddy."

Tony almost never asked questions. If I asked him for something, he was there, no matter what he had to drop in order to do so. He was a great friend. I could only hope I'd been half as good to him as he'd been to me.

"Thanks, Tony."

"Don't thank me," he insisted. "You don't have to thank me for somethin' like this."

"Yeah, I do. I do, Tony."

He huffed a laugh. "If you say so. I'll be there soon as I can, okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay. See ya, Dal."

"'kay. Seriously, man, thank you."

"You gotta cut that out, Dallas. I'm gonna hang up on your white ass."

"Wait, what –"

He hung up on my white ass.

XXXXX

"Man, am I glad to see you."

Tony just shot me his biggest grin and hugged me. I let him do most of the work, no matter how glad I was to see him. I had no energy. But I could feel myself smiling despite myself, and for a few seconds there, everything was okay. Everything was always okay when Tony was around.

"How you doin', professor?" He asked, slapping me on the back. I huffed a tired laugh.

"I don't know," I said honestly, a smile still threatening to split my face.

"Yeah," he sighed. "I get that."

"Yeah?"

He nodded. "Yeah, man. _Man_ , this sucks. This _sucks_. This really sucks."

"It does," I agreed, and with earnest.

"And I can't believe it. Well," he amended, tipping his head, "maybe I can. Your old man smoked like a chimney around the two of us."

I snorted. "Sure did. God, Tony. It's all happening so fast."

"How fast?"

"Faster than I would like."

"He hurtin'?"

I cocked an eyebrow. He raised both of his right back. The front room was too quiet with just the two of us, everyone else scattered around the house. "Maybe a little," I whispered, though I don't know why.

"And how long?"

"Couple weeks, about." Tony's face fell, his entire posture changing.

"Well. That, uh, that –"

"Sucks," I finished for him. "It sucks."

Tony smirked. "Yeah, man. It does."

Mom found us a few moments later. "Tony! It's good to see you, sweetheart." Mom hugged Tony, too. She has a real soft spot for him. "I hope you didn't skip right by your mother and come straight to us."

"'Course not, Miss Bee. She'll be over in a bit. Said she could make dinner."

Mom started vehemently shaking her head. That was her inner hostess refusing help in her time of need. Her husband may be dying, but she'd be goddamned if she couldn't put together a decent meal. "No, no. That's alright, honey. I was already working on it anyway. Let your mother know that's sweet of her, but I've got it handled."

"You sure?"

Mom smiled. "Positive." She patted his cheek. "You let her on back when she gets here – I'll be in the kitchen. I would still appreciate the help."

"You got it, Miss Bee."

Mom was beaming. Tony absolutely tickled her. She gave us one last look before sashaying back to the kitchen, and get this – she was _humming_. Dad dying was hard, but having guests suddenly put a spring in her step. Like if she could just have a little bit of purpose for the evening that went beyond her role as "primary caretaker."

Good.

Dad's buddies had met Tony a few times on their visits up here over the years, but I felt like I had to reintroduce everybody each time. But I'm pretty sure my uncles didn't know Odette.

Odette, man. Tony's mother was built just like mine, but she was a powerhouse in a way Mom just wasn't. _Isn't_. She'd probably had to become one, with the shit she's put up with over the years. Lisa opened the door for her (which, I'm surprised she didn't just waltz right in, she knows us so well), and Odette gave her a quick squeeze and then marched right back to the kitchen like she was on a mission from god. Hell, maybe she was.

Now, don't get me wrong – for as different as our mothers are, they actually get on pretty well. They were two very different women, and I would understand if they _didn't_ get along. But they'd been good to each other over the years. It was nice to see.

"What the hell do you mean you don't need _help?"_ Odette asked as she came into the kitchen, surprising all of us. Dad and his buddies were just sitting (well – Dad was _sleeping_ _upright_ ) in the living room when she stomped in and announced her presence, holding a pie in her arms. Mom looked amused.

"Hey, Odette," she greeted, smirking. "Nice to see you, too. Been a while."

"If 'a while' means 'yesterday', then _sure_ , nice to see you, too." She put the pie down on the island, gentler than her tone. "Your husband is dyin' and you have the _nerve_ to refuse my help. I see how it is."

"I did not refuse your help," Mom refuted, laughter in her voice. "I just said I could handle dinner."

"Well, tough. I made cherry pie. Your recipe. Figgered everyone would approve."

"I sure do!" Someone's voice called from the living room. I craned my neck and saw it was Dad. "Hey, Odette."

"Keith," she greeted, squinting at him. "Hm."

" _What_ , Odette?"

She kept studying him. "Nothin'. Who're these?"

 _These_ , she said, like they were vermin. I glanced at Tony, who was just shaking his head. Dad laughed and slowly stood up.

" _These_ are my buddies. Darry's the big one" – Darry waved –"Steve's the angry-lookin' one there" – Steve scowled, but did the same –"Ponyboy" – Dad leaned in conspiratorially–"he's the bright one, and Sodapop – he's the handsome one there."

Odette raised her eyebrows. "What kinda names are Sodapop and Ponyboy?"

"Original ones," Pony said.

"Our father was pretty creative," Soda added. "Darry's just a junior, though," he grinned, like he was sharing a secret.

Odette continued to look unimpressed. Mom laughed for real.

"Dallas, why don't you go get Sammy ready for dinner," she suggested (though, it's never _really_ a suggestion), so I left Tony and the rest of them to deal with Odette while I bounded upstairs to find my son.

For this momentous dinner, we sat in the dining room. Remember, my mother's quite the hostess. And Pony was right – she came from a _very_ affluent New York family. She had a cosmopolitan upbringing from my grandfather, and a southern step-mother who further ingrained the duties of a hostess and the ideals of an upper-class woman into her. When Sammy and I came downstairs just before dinner to help her and Odette, she looked just how I remembered on nights like this: her believed-to-be-untamable hair was pinned up out and of her face, even though a few errant curls fell loose. She'd done her makeup for the first time since I'd come home. She had a frilly apron on over her red dress. She was wearing heels.

Mom was in her element.

"Hey, Ma."

Sammy was hiding behind my legs all of a sudden. I think it had something to do with all the noise coming up from the open basement door. Soda and Steve had already broken into the wet bar and were entertaining everybody. Usually, it was Dad and Sodapop, but I guess Steve was allowing his hair to hang down for once.

"Hi, honey."

"Everybody's in the basement?"

Mom huffed a laugh. "Yeah. I sent Mary down there to grab a bottle of wine I've been saving, but I guess she got… _distracted._ "

I smiled. "Yeah, well, when Soda's up on his soapbox…"

"He's hard to ignore. He's hard to ignore when he _isn't_."

" _Wow_ , Mom." Mom blushed, and I had to laugh. She had all these little tells when we were teasing her. "Bit of a wandering eye?"

She giggled – actually _giggled_. "Of course not, honey. You know, he was the first person I ever met when I moved down to Tulsa. Technically, I've known him longer than I've known your father. One of my friends used to think I had a crush on him."

"Did you?"

Mom shook her head. "Not at all. But he's a good friend, isn't he?"

"He sure is."

"He sure is," she repeated softly, smiling sweetly at me. "Sammy, why don't you help your daddy set the table?"

So we set the table. This was also a very familiar act. If Mom and/or Dad were entertaining, it became the whole, _children are to be seen and not heard_ sort of thing. I guess that's sorta common.

"Who you wanna sit next to?" Sammy shrugged. "You wanna sit with Gramma?"

"Sure," he said quietly. It was funny – he was okay before Tony and Odette got here. I don't know what was wrong _now_.

Like I've said before, the dining room doesn't really get used outside of hosting purposes. We always ate in the kitchen. It's kinda the center of the household, anyway. But with twelve people coming to dinner, Mom and Dad (yeah, even Dad, who waltzed downstairs like he did the other day at breakfast, looking like he wasn't on death's door) were in their element. This is what they did best. They were quite the team.

Here's how it went down:

On occasions like this, when Dad was involved, he sat at the head of the table. No questions asked. Even with Darry– who's two years older – here, and my father actively dying, it was Dad's house and us putting it on, so he sat at the head of the table.

Mom was always at the opposite end. And she was _always_ the last to sit down. Once everybody else was served, the apron came off, she hung it up, waltzed into the dining room, heaved a happy sigh, and sat down.

Everyone else was fair game.

There were five chairs on either side of the table tonight. When I was a kid, I got stuck on my own on one side of the table, between relatives (usually one of those six cousins of ours on Dad's side, who were all younger than me, and infinitely annoying) and family friends. Mary and Lisa would sit on the other side, usually smirking at me because they had ended up on the side with the adults, and I'd scowl back at them. It's hard, being both the middle child and only boy.

But we're all grown-ups now! Right? Kinda.

I still sat alone on one side, but it wasn't so bad because I had Darry and Sammy sitting to my left, and Tony and Ponyboy sitting on my right. Tony's mom sat across from me, and Mary and Soda sat to her right, while Lisa and Steve sat to her left. Dad was between Soda and Pony, and then Mom – as she always does – waltzed into the dining room, sighed, and sat down between Sammy and Mary.

Odette looked briefly at each of us.

"Grace?"

It was quiet. We are not a grace-saying family. We _never_ say grace. Only at Thanksgiving, when we're with Dad's family. Because they're Catholic. But Dad really…wasn't. He just grumbled and went along with it, never one to upset his mother or sister. And we weren't exactly a religious family, even with the Catholic church just down the street. Odette's voice didn't seem to brook any argument. But I was still surprised when it was Dad who said,

"Sure. Why not."

And he wriggled his eyebrows at Ponyboy and grabbed his hand. We all followed suit. But while everyone else closed their eyes, I kept mine peeled open, watching Odette as she gave the blessing. It was as if she was in tune with the universe, channeling something beyond any of the rest of our reaches.

It was beautiful.

"Amen," she finished.

"Amen," we chorused, and I had to tear my eyes away from her.

Dinner was a pleasant affair, I suppose. No one talked about dying or anything. There was no talk of the Infamous Unfinished Will. Sammy warmed up to everyone again, though I don't know why he was chilly to begin with. And when the pie came out, everything was right with the world.

"Ya know, Mom always gave a good grace when we were kids," Darry remembered, pushing crumbs around his plate. "Dad never wanted to do it."

Soda snorted softly. "Yeah, well, you know Dad. God was more a convenience to him than anything else."

"Oh, He's convenient to blame," Odette said, shrugging. "Harder to thank. When things go good, we thank Him for what He's given us. When bad things happen, we blame Him. We don't appreciate that everything He puts us through has reason. We don't bother to figure out what His reason is – that's the problem, if you ask me."

Dad was watching her closely. When he and Soda and Steve went to war, they had told they Army that they were, respectively, Catholic, Catholic, and Jewish. Steve had shown us boys his dogtags when we were little. I remember sitting with his twin boys and Lee and Pony's boys, Johnny and Mike, and he showed us the Star of David his had, versus the cross the Dad's and Uncle Soda's had. It was important enough to them for them to want the Army to know. And I think it was becoming important again now. Now that death was so close, those Last Rites about to be given.

The thought sent a chill down my spine.

"Odette, you really outdid yourself with that pie," Mary complimented later. Odette just grinned.

"Don't thank me – thank your mother for the recipe."

I knew what I was writing my next entry about.

XXXXX

 _Entry #7_

 _"_ _Bridget Mathews, you have outdone yourself this year."_

 _Mom looked proud. I don't think anything ever made her happier than hearing a compliment from Dad. He pecked her cheek, and she had the decency to pretend to be modest, even though she already knew how well she'd done._

 _"_ _Well, thank you, honey. I can't say it was easy, but I wasn't without help. Cooking for twenty-one is no small feat – reinforcements were a necessity."_

 _Mom and Dad always played well off each other._

 _"_ _And is that your blue ribbon-winning cherry pie I see?" Dad asked, smiling wolfishly. Mom just shrugged._

 _"_ _It might be. It just might be…"_

XXXXX

 **AN: We'll return to that particular memory at a later time, so don't worry – I won't leave you hanging forever ;)**

 **Thank you for reading! As always, reviews and thoughts are welcome!**


	7. All the Good Stuff is in the Closet

**Author's Note: So this one took a little longer – these middle chapters have a little less pre-written than the early chapters and the ones towards the end. So if I slow down to once a week for a bit, that's the reason.**

 **Also – I see y'all reading, but don't be afraid to talk to me! Lurking is cool, but I love hearing your thoughts, too!**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

At night, I would lay awake, staring up at the ceiling. Sammy would sleep soundlessly and motionless next to me. But I would be wide awake, thinking. My brain was in overdrive.

So I did what I always do when I can't sleep – well, one of the things I always do when I can't sleep.

I wrote.

Good thing I already had something started.

XXXXX

 _Entry #1, Part Two_

 _1999_

"Dallas."

I smirked and shoved my fists into my pockets. "Hey, Uncle Darry."

Darry looked concerned. He wasn't wrong to be – he knew what had happened. He was the only one of my family that did. And now here I was, standing on his front porch in Tulsa, Oklahoma when I was supposed to be home in New York. This was a red flag to him, I'm sure. If I were him, I'd be freaking out. But Darry Curtis doesn't freak out. "Why're you here, kid?"

"It's summer," I shrugged. "I can go where I want."

"Not when you're s'posed to be goin' home, you can't. Seriously, Dally, what's goin' on?"

I sighed. "Can I come in? It's hot out here."

Darry opened the door and let me in.

"Who is that, Darrel?"

"It's Dallas, Aunt Jackie!"

Jackie is Darry's wife. She's a really southern debutante – came from New Orleans. She was real pretty, too, and had a nice rack. But I shouldn't be thinking such things about her, even if we aren't really related. What's important is that she's always been nice to me. But she still looked surprised as hell when she came out of the kitchen and saw me standing in her living room.

"Dallas Mathews, what're you doin' here?" She asked in her thick, feminine, southern drawl. I smiled at her.

"Just passin' through, Aunt Jackie." I could feel Darry's eyes on me. Boring holes into the side of my skull. "Lee home?"

Lee was their only son. They had two daughters, Martha and Joan. We were all close in age.

"Not right now," she answered, hugging me. "But what're you really doin' here, Dallas?

"Just passing through. Really!" I said, even though Jackie looked skeptical. All of these mothers were always _skeptical_ , and always caught on to all of her antics. The River Incident of 1992 comes to mind.

"Well, it's so good to see you. Make sure when you call your mother that you tell her I'm sending up the things that she asked for."

I raised an eyebrow. "Things? What things?"

Jackie smirked and turned tail. "I guess you _both_ have your secrets!" She said cheerfully, disappearing back into the kitchen. I turned to Darry, who was _not_ amused.

"Alright, kid – _spill_. What the hell are you doin' here?"

I grimaced. "Darry, I think you know why," I mumbled towards the floor.

"Don't tell me it's because of that girl."

"That dead girl? Yeah, maybe it is. And maybe it's because I've realized just how fuckin' _expendable_ I am."

"Expendable?" Darry repeated. I nodded.

"Yeah. Like, in the grand scheme and all. I'm a weak link, man. And I've got to figure out some things before anything can happen."

"Like _what?"_

"Like dying."

"Dying."

"Yeah. I mean – I could. I have this disease, ya know."

Darry scoffed. "So? That's never been a problem for you before."

"Well, it's a problem _now_. So I came down here."

"You came down here because…"

"Because that just seemed like the thing to do."

I shrugged, a big smile on my face, like it was all that simple. Darry was staring at me like I was crazy. Looking back on it, I think he probably knew what I was gonna find down there. I don't know why he didn't just go ahead and tell me, though.

"This is for you," Grandma had told me, thrusting a photo album in my hands. "I want you to have it and take it home with you."

I started flipping through the pages. Early on, I recognized Dad and Darry when they were little, standing side-by-side in little league uniforms. Aunt Sadie when she was little (Lisa looked a lot like Sadie did – maybe that's why Dad gave her the same nickname). More pictures of Dad and Sadie's friends, so I saw not just Darry, but Steve and Sodapop and Ponyboy, too. Some other guys I didn't recognize. I smiled a bit when I saw pictures of Mom start to crop up somewhere around the middle. I mean, we're not talking prom pictures – not Dad's thing – but the two of them just together, candidly. Sitting on the front porch together. On the couch talking to somebody, shoulder-to-shoulder. There was their wedding portrait, so hippy-dippy that you wouldn't believe it, and Mom five months pregnant with Mary. But they looked happy. Slowly, we show up. First, Mom and Dad and Mary, Mom holding Mary and Dad's arm around her. Mary with her raven-black hair and propped up on chubby legs. Mary with Lee, sitting together in someone's yard. Mary "holding" a baby me. The two of us sitting together on a porch swing. Surrounded by our parents' friends' kids. Gap-toothed smiles and scraped knees. And then watching myself grow up before my own eyes until Lisa shows up, the last baby any of them had. There's some more jumps as I flip through. But we spent more time down in Tulsa when we were little. I guess there was just more time back then.

"This is really great, Gramma, thanks."

"You're welcome, honey."

"I don't recognize all these people."

Gramma just shrugged. "People come and go."

"Yeah," I sighed, wanting to ask more. But I knew what she meant. People grow apart. And people move away. And people die. "That must suck."

Gramma looked amused, her Italian ear still not used to any of our slang. "Yes. It does."

XXXXX

"The rest of the kids get home tonight. You should come over and see them," Darry had told me when I saw him the next morning. I had wanted to show him the photo album Gramma had given me.

"I will," I promised.

Darry had really liked the photo album. He had a little smile on his face the whole time he flipped through the pages, adding little comments every now and then, like _"I think I still have that glove somewhere"_ and _"My mother took this photo."_ Stuff like that. I actually saw a copy of one of the pictures on one of his bookshelves, of Mom and Jackie with Mary and Lee, when Mary was a little older than newborn and Lee was about one. Both of them were pregnant at the altar. I guess it's something they could bond over?

"If you want to keep looking, I could just grab it when I come back tonight."

Darry shook his head. "Naw, you take it kid. It's your family, and Mrs. Mathews gave it to you. Who knows? Maybe you'll find whatever you're looking for in there."

Now I know that Darry was right, and that he knew then that I already had. I'd seen Dallas Winston's – and for that matter, Johnny Cade's – face more than once, in those early pages of the album. But I didn't know anything then.

"Any good places to grab a burger? Gramma's workin', and I kinda want to be on my own for a while."

Darry raised his eyebrows. "You sure? Do you know your way around?"

I shrugged happily. "I'll figure it out if it turns out I don't. I'll call you from a phone booth or somethin'."

Darry looked both like he was fed up with me and like he thought I was crazy. He gave me a slow nod. "Yeah. Okay. Um. There's a diner two blocks north that's pretty good."

I nodded. "I'll check it out. I'll be back tonight – I'm gonna head over to see Mom's parents for a while. They don't know I'm here."

"They don't?"

"No," I shook my head. "Figure I'll surprise 'em. Think I'll give Grandpa another heart attack?"

"I sure hope not."

XXXXX

"What can I get'cha, hun?"

I glanced at the menu, wanting more than just diner food. Some of Gramma Viviane's beef stew topped off with a slice of Mama's cherry pie sounded good to me, but this wasn't my house. And Gramma's was several blocks away. I was gonna take what I could get. And this had been close.

"I'll have a burger - hold the onions."

I smiled at her as she scratched down my order. Just like Dad does. The lady looked to be about my parent's age, with a few wrinkles. Her hair was pulled back into a tight blonde bun, and she wore a lot of makeup. She took my order to the kitchen, leaving me alone. I sighed, and set the photo album on the table. I had no clue if I was going to find what I needed in this, but it was a start. I had to get some answers about my life, and who my parents were. Before it was too late. Goddamnit, Katherine. You and your death making me do stupid shit.

"Here ya go, one burger - no onions." The waitress set the plate down in front of me, right next to the photo album, which was opened to the picture of Mom and Dad on their wedding day. I looked up.

"Thanks," I said, hoping she would leave. Which she didn't. Her eyes were glued to the picture.

"My god. If it ain't Two-Bit Mathews."

I raised an eyebrow. I assumed she was talking about Dad, but I had never heard anyone besides Mom and his friends refer to him as Two-Bit before.

"I guess..." I trailed off. "You know 'im?" The waitress snorted.

"Know 'im? I used to date the bastard," she spat. Then she did something I didn't expect her to do - she sat down in the empty seat across from me.

"Yep. Two-Bit Mathews. The two of us were pretty steady back when we were in high school. He was a jackass, but hell. He was charming and handsome and I couldn't resist him if I tried."

Woah. Talk about some good info! I pushed my burger aside and leaned forward. I wanted more outta this lady. "So the two of you dated? Back in the sixties?" I asked.

"Sure did. I mean, we were on and off, but people knew we were as good as any other couple around school," she shrugged. I nodded quickly, opening up a mental file so I could store all this.

"And, uh, what was he like? Back then?"

"Well," she drawled. "He was always one to go around makin' jokes. Thought he was a regular Johnny Carson. That landed his ass in detention more times than either of us could count. He was kinda a bum, didn't get a real job until that gal he was seein' left town for New York."

"Bridget Stevens!" I blurted, before I knew what I was even saying. My waitress smiled.

"Yeah, yeah her. He left me for her - bastard didn't even tell me about her 'til it was too late. Yep, he was absolutely crazy about her. Cleaned up nice for her, treated her real good, bought her flowers and all that. Ever'one around town could tell he was nuts 'bout her, even the ones who didn't give a damn. Why, she your mama?"

I nodded vigorously.

"Then that must mean he's your daddy," she said, tapping my father's face in the picture. I nodded again.

"That would be correct, ma'am. Dallas Mathews, ma'am," I said, holding out my hand. She grinned and grasped it.

"Kathy Lawson. It's nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you, too."

Kathy and I talked for a long time about dad. How he hung around with a gang of guys-my uncles, I assume-and got into fights. How he used to drive this old car that almost got them killed one night. How he had genuinely missed only four days of school in his life (I'd have to ask him about that one.) How he was a bum, but still a pretty good guy, considering what side of town he came from. She told me all about what it was like living on their side of town, how the "socs"- people like my mom-treated them real bad, and how the two sides were constantly at odds with each other. That is, until something happened.

"What happened?" I asked, trying to get out of her what I couldn't get out of uncle Darry. But she just shook her head.

"I don't know if I should be the one tellin' ya," she sighed. "But that boy you're named after – he had a lot to do with it."

I cocked an eyebrow. "I'm named after somebody?" I asked, confused. Kathy looked confused as well.

"What's that s'posed to mean?"

I shrugged. "I mean, I didn't know I was named after somebody."

"Well, then I _really_ shouldn't be the one to tell you this, kid."

Okay, cryptic. I nodded and left her a generous tip.

XXXXX

As I was heading back to Grandma's house from my other grandparents' house, I headed over to Darry and Jackie's to see all the other kids. Fran, Lee, Martha, Joan, Vin, Tommy, and Annette. I'd known them all my whole life, but I felt like stranger. But I didn't make like one, and I just waltzed right into the house and towards the backyard.

"Well, well! If it isn't Dallas Mathews!" Sodapop called when he saw me, smiling up at me from the yard. I was standing alone on the porch, feeling kinda awkward. "I'd heard you were in town. What brings ya here, kiddo?"

I shrugged. Soda came up onto the porch and clapped me on the back. "Just couldn't go home, I guess," I admitted. "I've kinda had a rough month."

Soda nodded in understand. "Darry told me. Sorry that happened, kid."

"It's okay," I said, but Soda shook his head.

"No, it's not. And it's okay that it's not okay. Okay?"

I smirked. "Yeah. Okay."

"Okay. Hey – Fran! Come say hi to Dallas."

Thus began a parade of my almost cousins coming up to the porch to greet me, spewing various congratulatory remarks about my recent graduation, condolences about my late acquaintance (nothing can ever stay a secret, can it?), and so many questions.

 _What brings you_ here?

 _What are you gonna do now that you've graduated?_

 _Do your parents know? What did they say?_

 _Wanna come riding tomorrow?_

I raised an eyebrow at Fran. "Franny, you know I don't exactly ride," I drawled. "It's the girls who like the horses."

Fran shrugged. "Yeah, but you should come over tomorrow anyway. Me and Annie'll help you. It'll be fun."

Fran was as horse crazy as her father, and she and Steve's girl, Anne, were as tight as their dads were. For symmetry's sake, I suppose. And I _could_ ride, it just wasn't really my beat. But Fran was persistent with me, and I eventually relented. I just wasn't sure anybody would want to see me on a horse – I'd probably make a damn fool of myself. Hell, I _knew_ I would.

"Thanks for agreein'," Soda told me later. "They like seein' ya."

I grumbled and groused a bit about it. " _Sure_ , when Mary and Lisa aren't around."

"Aw, don't be like that."

But it was true. Fran and Annie liked Mary and Lisa better than they liked me. For sure. Same way the boys probably liked me better. That's just how it is. I didn't really get to see much of Lee that night, but he gave me a solid pat on the back when he saw me and smiled. "Good to see ya, man."

"Good to see you too, Lee."

Lee was a lot like his dad, in the way I guess I'm a lot like mine. So I guess it made sense that we got along. I was sitting on the back porch, showing my uncles the photo album. Steve and Soda seemed to enjoy it as much as Darry did. And it was nice, the four of us sitting together on the steps, drinking beers and me listening to them reminisce together. About the Curtis parents, who none of us besides them remembered, except for Aunt Evie. About old friends (but not the ones that really counted). It felt like being a part of something a bit bigger than I was, something I would never be able to really understand.

"I met one of Dad's old girlfriends today," I said quietly, crickets and cicadas answering before I do.

Soda, Steve, and Darry laughed, probably remembering plenty of things from the past. Maybe trying to figure out which one I was talking about.

"Lemme guess," Steve laughed. "...Kathy?"

I nodded. The three of them laughed harder. I was confused about what was so funny. It really wasn't all that funny; she was just another girl.

"Kathy was a handful, kid," Steve sighed.

"Sure as hell was," Darry grumbled. "If your dad didn't have such a thing for blondes, who knows if he'd have even seen her. But, he did, and we all had the opportunity to witness _that_."

It was funny, watching these men laugh and reminisce. Was it because I was here? Or was this something they did a lot? Times like this made me feel out of place, like I was invading in on something that I wasn't supposed to be a part of. I have my own friends. These are Dad's friends. Mom's friends too, but Dad's first. He's known Darry for...what? Almost fifty years. Insane! I could only hope I could be friends with Tony – or anybody, for that matter – for that long. I've grown up with these people. I know and trust and care deeply for these people. But hell, I'm just Keith's kid. Two-Bit Mathews' kid, I s'pose.

"It was kinda weird," I added over their noise. "Cuz he's been with Mom forever."

"Sure has," Soda drawled. They all three eyed me. "She tell you anything?"

I shrugged. "Not much. She said I was named after somebody – that was something."

They all froze. I guess I had stumbled upon a sensitive topic. I felt real awkward again, like coming down here was a mistake. But how could it _possibly_ be a mistake if already, a day in, I had started to discover something? The universe had to be trying to tell me something with that. Right?

Right?

"Oh yeah?" Darry asked. "Guess you'd have to ask your parents about that."

"I guess…next time I call, I guess I'll ask." I was kinda disappointed they wouldn't just tell me, because they clearly knew. "I just feel like I have a lot to figure out now."

Steve smiled at me. "What are you trying to figure out?" He asked, like he knew but wanted to hear it from me. "Why are you so curious now? You've had years! We've always been here...why wait 'til you're -"

"Until I'm what?" I spat. "Stuck in a wheelchair? Dammit, it ain't my fault that I'm so _terminal_!"

The three of them stared at me for a long time. It was extremely uncomfortable. My face was getting red. Dammit, Katherine. "Who told you that, Dally?" Soda asked me softly. "Whaddya mean?"

"Jesus, kid, if this is about the whole diabetes thing...look, we've all told you that you're fine. Lookit you! They'd be stupid to saw anythin' off ya."

Darry shot Steve a look, then looked at me and softened. He knew what this was about. His eyes bore into mine.

"Dallas," he said calmly. "Never let anyone have this much of an influence over you."

At that, Sodapop burst into tears.

XXXXX

"Dallas. C'mere."

Next day, and it's raining. So we're all just sitting around doing just about nothing, watching TV. I was tired – I'd stayed up for a couple hours writing last night's entry, sitting alone in the library with one dim light on, scribbling in an old spiral notebook in handwriting I'm not sure anyone but me would be able to read. Scribblings of a mad man – or, a sad man, whose father is on the brink of death. Maybe it would be worth it to type all these.

Anyways.

Dad didn't let me _c'mere_ on my own and instead pulled out my chair and pushed me out of the dining room and upstairs to his room. Mom-'n'-Dad's room wasn't exactly off-limits when we were kids, but it did sorta feel like this space where we weren't s'posed to be. It was a room as enigmatic as their pasts. I've seen so little of it that I'm not entirely unconvinced it hasn't looked exactly this way since 1975. The past week has been the most I've ever been in this room, and I've gotta admit – it's kinda eeking me out.

End of an era, man.

"What're you up to _now_ , you crazy old man?" I asked, watching him as he waltzed into the closet.

"C' _mere_ ," his disembodied hand beckoned. "I have something I need to show you."

Jesus. If I have to take on another one of these crazy projects, I _swear_ I'll…

Well.

I don't know what I'll do.

Something drastic.

The closet was even more of a mystery to us. Walk-in, we knew that. There was still shag carpeting whereas the rest of the house was wood, so I guess some things have changed since the seventies. One side was clearly Mom's. Not just because there were like, skirts and stuff. But all of Dad's shit was just strewn everywhere.

Wonder if she'll keep it that way.

"All the good stuff is in the closet, kid," Dad began dramatically. "Lookin' for photo albums? Closet. Something terribly out of style? Closet. Birth certificates? _Closet_. This thing is like a time capsule."

"Alright," I drawled, eyes scanning, amazed I was even being allowed in here. "That's great and all, pop, but did you just want to show me your underwear…or?"

Dad waved a hand. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Dallas Mathews. This is _sensitive_ information I'm about to give you, okay?"

I groaned. "Dad, is it not enough that I'm recording your life story? I gotta be trusted with _sensitive information_ as well? Why can't you just tell Mom? Or Mary?"

"Cuz they're already doin' enough, and they've got more ahead of 'em. And Lisa, poor girl, can't even _look_ at me. I need you to help me out here, Dally."

He was looking real earnest about it, but I still hesitated. Don't ask me why. If I tell you, you'll tell me I'm a horrible son.

"Last wish of a dying man, kid."

I doubted it was the _last_ , but, " _Fine._ What is it?"

Dad grabbed a cigar box and flipped open the lid. It looked to be filled with knick-knacks – an old switchblade, concert tickets to the Grateful Dead and other acts, a couple playbills – and old photographs. "There's a couple things I want going down with me. Pictures."

"You mean, when you're buried."

"Bingo!"

"What are they?"

"Well," he drawled, looking positively cheeky, "here's one of 'em."

And he handed me a picture of my mother. My _naked_ mother.

"Dad!"

He started howling. "Aw, kid, you shoulda seen the look on your face. What? The human body is a bea- _u_ \- tiful thing, ya know."

"I know!" I squawked, my eyes shut. "But-but-but…you wanna be _buried_ with this?"

"Well, sure! That's my girl, kid!"

I sighed and opened my eyes back up. I looked at the picture. My mother was a beautiful woman, I'll admit that. But of all the dirty things…"Why do you have this again?" I asked, knowing he hadn't said why yet.

"I expressed an interest."

Oh my _god_. "So. You, uh. _Expressed an interest_ in having… _naked_ …pictures…of _my mother."_

Dad cocked an eyebrow. "She wasn't your mother then, bucko. I know it's hard to believe now, but back in the day? Your mother and I could go at it like you wouldn't _believe –"_

" _Jesus,_ Dad!"

He laughed. "That's a good story for you," Dad cut in with a smirk.

"You serious?" I asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Ya know, I don't know if I want my son reading a story about his grandmother's naked body."

Dad laughed. "That's not the story, dumbass. What, you think I'mma detail every inch of her? Naw, it's a funny story. Here's how it went…"

XXXXX

 _Entry #8_

 _1974_

She held up a fairly large package. Rectangular, simply wrapped. I cocked an eyebrow.

"Happy birthday," she said, holding it out to me. "Open it."

"What is it?"

"I'm not telling!" She sang. "You have to see for yourself. Just know that this was inspired by a conversation we had a while ago."

Well gee, that could be just about anything. Based on our conversations, it could be as exciting as a new set of keys. Or – good god – something _wedding related._ So I tore off the wrapping paper, not being careful with it at all, to reveal a package underneath it.

"Ah, thanks, Bee. Just what I wanted!" She smacked the back of my head.

"Open it, wiseass." So I did. And there was a manila envelope inside.

"I'm disappointed."

Bridget sighed. "Incidents like these make me question your intelligence. There's something _inside!_ Here, do you need me to open it for you?"

"No!" I said quickly. "No. I'm twenty-six now, and I've been opening envelopes since I was twenty. I can do it."

She actually laughed at that one. I leaned into her as I unsealed the envelope, and looked inside. Bunches of white sheets of what looked like photos. I looked up at her. "What exactly did you cook up?" I asked. Bridget just shook her head as I pulled them out. There was a piece of paper covering the front photograph, so I pulled it off. And what was underneath absolutely, positively astounded me.

"Oh, my god," I garbled out. Bridget giggled.

I was staring at a picture of my naked fiancé. And there were several more. Several. The one I had my eyes glued to right now was of her backside, her black hair tumbling down her back and her green eyes staring back at me. Her body was pure white but her cheeks were pink, and her lips red like cherries.

Bridget was the _fucking_ _epitome_ of beauty.

"I think I just pissed my pants," I mumbled.

"Something like that, yeah."

I continued to flip through them, some in color, some black and white. Some of them were full-frontals, breasts one-hundred percent exposed. Others were her just lounging around on some photographer's furniture. (I moved on from that thought quickly, before it could piss me off.)

"Who in the hell did these for you?" I asked, still in awe.

"I know a guy," Bridget said simply. "I told him that my boyfriend – well, _fiancé,_ " she drawled, her voice tempting me, as if to say, _Here – I gave you this gift! Now, let's set a date,_ "said he would _love_ to have a nude picture of me, so he took some. And there's a wallet-sized version of the first one," she added as a happy afterthought.

"Maybe it would fare better in a picture frame. At the bottom of my underwear drawer."

"It's just the two of us, ya know."

"Yeah, for _now_. At the _moment_. What if…what if someone comes to _visit_ , and they see it, and – "

"What, you're gonna hang these in the living room? C'mon, Two-Bit."

"But what if I put them somewhere _for my eyes only_ , and someone still finds them? Like…like –"

"Like our children?"

I shot her a freaked look. She just smirked and raised an eyebrow. Kids? Fuck. What's a kid? Who? Me? Her? Have children? Yeah right, buckaroo. We ain't even married yet. "Fuck, Bee, don't scare me like that. Not on this, the day of my birth. Gonna give me a heart attack."

She frowned. "What, you don't want kids? And I'm not pregnant, anyway. Relax."

I shook my head. "It ain't _that_ , it's just…"

"Just what?"

"Just _nothin'_."

"That's right."

XXXXX

"That's real _cute_ , Dad," I drawled. "Can't _believe_ you didn't want me."

Dad just happily shook his head. "Aw, kid. Be fair. 'Sides – there's one more I want down there, too."

He reached back into the cigar box and held out a small photograph of the same size to me. It was old and faded, and when I saw it, I knew why. Because it was a picture of Mary, me, and Lisa at roughly…seven, five, and one. I smiled down at it.

"You got it, Dad. I'll make sure you have 'em."

"You better, kid, or I'll haunt your ass."

XXXXX

 **AN: Sorry this took longer than usual! Wild times, pals. But I think I'll be able to stick to once a week updates. :)**

 **Thanks for reading! Feel free to let me know what you think – I'd be eternally grateful.**


	8. The Church of Shove-It-Up-Your-Assism

**Author's Note: Sorry for the slow update! They'll be coming faster again soon. Things get crazy.**

 **This chapter is very…religious. Well, it talks a lot about religion. And God. Not always in a nice way. I just want you all to know it is not my aim to offend. Also – direct quotes from** ** _The Outsiders_** **, which I do not own. Wish I did, though, sometimes.**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

"Alright, y'all. It's Sunday. You know what that means."

Correction: it was Sunday _morning_ , and none of us were ready for Ponyboy Curtis's shit. Nobody responded to him, the only sounds coming from the kitchen. Opening and closing of the fridge and its electric hum; the rain falling just outside the window; my mother frying bacon and stirring grits (at Sodapop's request). It sounded like Sunday morning.

"What does that mean, Pony?" Mary asked, her voice still thick with sleep.

"Church," he said simply.

Everyone groaned. Church is _so_ not a happening thing for this family. I think I can count on my hands the number of times over the years we went to church, and Dad's denomination was literally _right down the street._

"I prefer to worship at the Church of CBS Sunday Morning," Dad deadpanned, which got him a couple of tired, huffy laughs.

"C'mon, guys," Pony prodded. "I've gone nearly every Sunday for, shit, thirty years?"

"Isn't Rosalind Church of England?" Mom asked. "Where've you been going for thirty years?"

"Excuse me, Miss Bridget, but _I'm_ Catholic. So we go to mass, thank you very much, unlike Sodapop and Darrel here, who can't get their asses out of bed early once a week and –"

"That's enough of that," Darry cut in. "You don't need to go preachin' to me 'bout how I need to get saved or some shit. I've given enough to God over the years. He and I, we're square."

"Same here," Soda smiled. "We've all given Him enough as it is, Ponyboy."

Pony squinted at us. He could be a real square sometimes, even more so than Darry. I looked over at Lisa, who looked absolutely bewildered, and also had just about the craziest bedhead. But her hair always did that. "We aren't really the churchy type, Uncle Pony," she explained tiredly.

Pony sighed and scanned all our faces. "Do I have to read the story to you?"

Everyone looked at him funny. But then both Darry and Soda rolled their eyes.

"Aw, Pony, you don't _mean –"_

"I can't believe you just _carry that thing around –"_

Pony held up a hand, reached down into his…satchel, we'll call it…and pulled out a copy of his book, _The Outsiders,_ boldly printed in white across a stark black cover. A truly modern classic. It was rare that I read a book in school that was from the past couple decades, but I vividly remember being handed a copy of that book in the seventh grade, and lemme tell ya, that was _weird_. Not only had it been published in the latter half of the twentieth century, but I knew the guy that wrote it. It was totally dysphoric. Dad thought it was hysterical when I brought it home. Apparently, it was new to the curriculum that year because Mary hadn't read it, but Lisa did some years later. And I'll tell ya something else: reading about your father as an eighteen-year-old kid is a strange gift.

"Uncle Pony!" Lisa laughed. "Don't tell me you just carry that around. _Don't_."

"Fine," he shrugged. "I won't. But listen to this."

And he began to read, flipping to the exact page he needed.

" _I'd been in church before. I used to go all the time, even after Mom and Dad were gone. Then one Sunday I talked Soda into coming with Johnny and me. He didn't want to come unless Steve did, and Two-Bit decided he might as well come too. Dally was sleeping off a hangover, and Darry was working. When Johnny and I went, we sat in the back, trying to get something out of the sermon and avoiding the people, because we weren't dressed so sharp most of the time. Nobody seemed to mind, and Johnny and I really liked to go. But that day...well, Soda can't sit still long enough to enjoy a movie, much less a sermon. It wasn't long before he and Steve and Two-Bit were throwing paper wads at each other and clowning around, and finally Steve dropped a hymn book with a bang - accidentally, of course. Everyone in the place turned around to look at us, and Johnny and I nearly crawled under the pews. And then Two-Bit waved at them. I hadn't been to church since_."

The room was so quiet, you could've heard a pin drop. I remembered that part. I remember sitting reading it for the first time, trying to picture the five of them in that church – though, I couldn't really picture Johnny, his appearance as much a mystery to me as anybody else. But I had seen a few pictures, and I could imagine a young Uncle Pony – about thirteen years old – and his best buddy, Johnny Cade, sitting in the back of a church each Sunday – a Catholic church, I'm sure – not exactly the best-dressed, but probably the most well-intentioned. And then Sodapop, who would have been sixteen at the time, refusing to go unless Steve tags along, his opposite in every way, yin to his yang. Sodapop has always been restless, and Steve is really only Jewish in heritage, so I can imagine him going if he really had nothing better to do. Darry apparently had to work a lot back then because, well, he was the sole guardian of two boys. And knowing what I know now about Dallas, the no-good hood, of _course_ he was sleeping off a hangover. And then Dad? Well, Dad's a go-with-the-flow sort of guy. He completed the picture for me. I struggled not to picture him, at twelve, as the grown man he was. But I could easily picture him waving to a crowd of people, not the least bit uncomfortable, because Dad's always been happy right where he is.

(You're probably wondering how I didn't figure out that the Dallas in the book was who I'm named after. Let's just say that my parents are good at lying. Very good. Scary good. "That Dallas?" Dad had asked. "Oh, _no_. You're named after a _different_ Dallas. You really think we woulda named ya after _that_ dumbass?" What? I was twelve and gullible.)

"Wow," Mom finally said.

"Ya know," Steve drawled, "the Steve in that book – '66 Steve – woulda told you back then that he thought Ponyboy Curtis was a pretentious prick. And, ya know, I've warmed up to ya over the years, man, but ask me what I think of you _now_ and I'd be inclined to say the same."

"Pony, nobody just carries a copy of their book around," Darry sighed. "It _really_ makes you look like an asshole."

"Sure," Pony shrugged. "But it helps prove a relevant point."

"What _is_ your point?" Dad asked, the only one of us not eating, which is just plain _wrong_.

"My point is that I want to try again, now that we're all here together, and that Catholic church just down the street has a mass at ten that I think we should all attend."

"Why's that?" I asked, still sluggish.

"Didn't you hear me?" Pony asked, but not unkindly, not even really irritated. "We're all together. And y'all fucked it up for me last time, so I thought, _'hey, this is the last chance they're gonna get to redeem themselves because it's the last time we're all gonna be together' –"_

"Oh, Pony –"

"It's true, Honey Bee," Dad shrugged. He ran a thumb across his bottom lip. "Welp, kiddos. Hope you brought your church duds, cuz it looks like I owe it to Ponyboy Curtis to make it through a mass." He shot his buddy a smile. "Guess it's about time I made peace with the big man upstairs, anyways."

XXXXX

An hour later, I'm sitting in the front room with Sammy on my lap, dressed in the suit I planned to wear to Dad's funeral. But I went against the black tie and instead borrowed one from Dad (which meant I got to go into the closet again, which, _wild_ ). Sammy was wearing a pair of corduroys and a sweater, which I was planning for _him_ to wear to Dad's funeral.

Actually, the more I looked around at the guys, seems the only reason anyone had brought a suit was for – you guessed it – Dad's funeral. Only Mom and my sisters wore anything different, my sisters' willowy bodies making it easy to just borrow something from Mom.

"See? It's good practice!" Dad had joked as we all filed at the door. "But Bridget, darling, I'm assuming you won't be wearing green to the affair."

Mom shot him a look. "What do you mean, this is good practice? Two-Bit, are you saying you want to – to have a _service_ here?"

Dad stopped at the front gate and sighed, his breath clouding in the cool air, like the rest of ours. "I dunno," he said. "Maybe. If it'd make y'all happy."

"It's your funeral, Two-Bit – literally. It's whatever you want it to be," Steve said. Dad smirked.

"Well, that's just it. I don't care how it is. I ain't gonna be around to see it. It's a funeral, Steve. Not a birthday party. Ya don't do this shit for _me_ , you do it for _you_. And that's okay because that's how it's s'posed to be."

Sammy tugged on my sleeve and I bent down. "What're they talking about?" He asked.

I froze for a second. "Nothing, baby. They're just talking about boring old guy stuff," I grinned, and Sammy laughed, buying it.

As we walked to church, Pony took the lead. The kid in _The Outsiders_ wouldn't have. It would've been Darry. Or Steve and Soda, side-by-side. My mother isn't in the book because Pony didn't really know her at the time, and that's always been Mom and Dad's story to tell. Aunt Evie, Steve's wife, is in it though, very briefly. Just a mention. But they'd all changed so much. Pony had described himself as quiet, daydreamy, but here he was leading us like a shepherd with his flock. Steve he'd described as cocky and tacky and smart. But what had he meant by tacky? Was it just a fourteen-year-old Ponyboy trying to sound smart? And what about Soda – how did he feel reading and seeing in writing that he was Pony's favorite? And _Dad?_

And Dad…

Well. He still grins like Will Rogers (well, _according to Ponyboy…_ ) but where was the tough guy that was ready to take on a carful of socialites?

You certainly wouldn't be able to find him now.

I hadn't been to church since before my wife left. She wasn't a bible-thumper or anything, but she'd believed in God and all that. She wasn't Catholic I (sorta) was, but some form of Protestant. Dad liked to act like that was a problem every time we came over, which I hate to admit hasn't been often in the last five years. But when we were first together, we visited a lot, and Dad would bust out the Marys and crucifixes and watch her with close eyes. He probably knew she was bad news before I did. Mom probably did too. As much as we all like to rag on Mary's senator-son-husband, we all know he's well-intentioned.

"Good Catholic," Dad had always somehow managed with a straight face one of the times Allison and I had visited.

Allison didn't really like my parents. Particularly my father. I don't know what it is he saw in her that made him dislike her so much. Dad really isn't one to dislike, either. Socs? Sure. Tim Shepard? Let's say us kids have heard some stories. North Vietnamese? Well, that's a complicated one. Long story short, Dad's a nice guy. Especially when you get to know him. And maybe it's that Allison never really tried that he didn't like her.

I don't know. I need to stop thinking about her. I need to move the fuck on.

But that's hard.

Everything is hard these days.

"Imagine this," Pony began as we got closer, parishioners filing into the old wooden doors of the church to worship. "You've lived in a house for roughly forty years, claim to be Catholic, tell your _mother_ that you go to mass every Sunday like a good boy, but you instead it turns out that you haven't stepped foot in the joint since…since – well – _God_ knows when."

"We get it, Pony," Soda drawled, laughter in his voice, "you're morally superior to us in every way and your wife is from across the pond. We get it."

Pony scowled at all of us as we walked by and he held open the door.

"I don't remember the priests' name," Dad whispered to us, sounding a both embarrassed and like he found it funny as…heck? Can you say 'hell' in church out of context?

"Father Simmons," Mom and Mary said, together, in perfect unison, like they always seemed to be. We filed in, the Curtises and Mom and Dad crossing themselves while the rest of us – especially Steve, who looked decidedly uncomfortable – and settled into a pew, our crew taking up an entire one. A few people, who I assumed were regulars, gave us annoyed looks, and Mary and Mom did their best to appear apologetic. 'Appear' being the operative word here. They were as tight-lipped as ever. But the rest of us were bubbling with questions and observations.

"Yeesh," Darry scoffed. "I miss when _everybody_ dressed up for church. Lookit some'a these people."

"Well, we look good," Dad said simply, and with a smile, too.

"Tie's chokin' me," Soda grumbled, tugging at his collar, already getting restless. You'd think, after several decades on the planet and a bad-ish (that's how he put it) knee, he would've settled down some, but no.

A choir started singing, effectively cutting off their conversation. Or, you would think it would, but it didn't. Because they kept right on talking, and Sammy kept asking me "Dad, what's going on? Why is [x] happening?" And I tried to answer as many questions as I could, but I'm pretty useless when it comes to stuff like this. I could tell you all about the Battle of Bunker Hill, though.

I watched as the singing ended and Father Simmons came to the pulpit and began his sermon. And I tried to focus on the sermon, I really did, just to get my mind off things. And, really, the Bible's just a book, right? You can analyze it as just a regular piece of literature. An epic. It has chapters, characters, protagonists and antagonists and morals and themes. You can learn as much from it about life as you could _To Kill a Mockingbird_ or _Breakfast of Champions_. This Sunday was something about…ugh. I couldn't tell you.

Wanna know why?

Here's why.

" _Dammit_ , Keith!" Mom suddenly hissed, quiet and low, a skill perfected over the years. I heard Lisa snort. And Sam giggled because of her snort. "What're the five of you _doing_ down there?"

"Aw, nothin', Bee," Soda whispered, and someone shushed him. I glanced down the aisle and saw Ponyboy staring at us, pissed.

"Would y'all shut up?" He asked, his voice rising a bit. Someone shushed him, too.

They shut up for a bit, and I tried to refocus. Thought about how I'm generally a good guy and didn't deserve all the shit that had happened to me, and neither did my family. The age old question: why did bad things happen to good people? And, conversely, why did good things happen to _bad_ people? What sort of universe did we live in –

"Oh. My. God," I heard Darry say. "You're fucking _kidding me_."

"What? It's called _symmetry,_ Darrel Curtis," Steve said with a grin, and when I glanced over that time, I suddenly had a whole new level of understanding for what Uncle Pony and Johnny Cade must've felt on that day when the five of them went to church together. Because while Father Simmons droned on, Steve had the Holy Bible in hand.

Nothing good was going to come of that. And if I'd heard that comment about symmetry correctly, this old fucker was going to do exactly what he'd done fifty years ago.

Ponyboy looked panicked. "Steve, _don't you fucking dare!"_ He hissed.

But Steve, ever the Number-One Ponyboy Antagonist, smirked, raised the Bible – the Holy fucking Bible, with its tackily painted gold edges and worn cover – and _slammed_ it onto the ground.

The church where this first happened in Uncle Pony's book must have been a small, sorta run-down place for it to be on the east side and for them all to have really been welcome there, at least Pony and Johnny, at the very least, who attended many a Sunday service. But this was an old, large, high-ceilinged, cathedral-style Catholic church, and Steve had just slammed a huge Bible onto its old wooden floors. Everything and everyone stopped. The altar boys and priest and the parishioners all stopped and turned towards the sound, which meant all eyes – hundreds of them – were set on us in our middle-of-the-pack pew. Steve and Soda were snickering. Pony and Darry looked paralyzed with embarrassment. Lisa was trying to quiet down Sam, who seemed to be wondering what in the hell was going on. Mom had her eyes closed and her hands pressed to her cheeks. Mary had slumped down in the pew like she was trying to hide, a common move of hers from her teenaged days. I scanned the crowd, praying to God – hoping for once that he'd hear me – that I wouldn't know anyone there and that they'd all just turn back around and the priest would start back up again.

And Dad. Fucking. _Waved_.

XXXXX

We left pretty quickly. The five of them were cackling quietly as we left, Mom scowling and Mary doing her best to match the fury in our mother's eyes. Lisa and Sam seemed fairly content. ("I think that went pretty well, actually," Lisa confided to me later.)

"That kinda took a lot outta me, y'all."

"Shit, Two-Bit. You gonna keel over now?"

Dad seemed to somehow press closer to Mom under their umbrella, and I'll have to tell you that this was the turning point. For the worse, I mean.

Yeah.

XXXXX

"– and Mom was all about faith. Real old country, Orthodox Catholic, ya know?"

Dad smeared a hand down his face, obviously exhausted. Mom had returned to the church to tell them that when the time comes, we wanted to do a service there for Dad. I didn't envy her task – those five old men had pulled some seriously ridiculous shit back there – but that meant I was on babysitting duty.

"Keep him company," Mom had said, when she really meant, ' _He looks pretty bad, stay with him in case he stops breathing.'_ So I don't know who had it worse, really. All I knew was that she and I had it pretty rough right now. Who I really envied were the rest of my family, who were all downstairs entertaining Sam. But now, I was using this as an opportunity to work on our project.

"You miss her ever?" I asked, stopping my scribbling to look up at him. I was leaning on my elbow on the bed, looking at him, but Dad wasn't looking at me. His eyes were closed, and I wished he'd open them. "Your mom?"

Dad hummed softly. "Yeah, I guess. I dunno. It's been a while since she passed. I guess I did a lot at first, but, ya know, life goes on." He opened one of his eyes. "That ain't to say that I just…forgot about her, okay? I don't mean it like that."

"I get it," I said. "Is that what it's gonna be like? When you go?"

He nodded a bit. "I hope so. Don't dwell on it, kid. Everybody's gonna leave you at one point or another, and then, _boom!_ Your number's up. Just remember that it could be a helluva lot worse."

"How?" I muttered. "It sucks already."

Dad rolled his head to the side so he could see me better. Cocked an eyebrow. "Fuck yeah it does, kid. I'd say dyin' sucks real bad." He shrugged. "Ain't much to do now, though. 'Cept wait it out." He closed his eyes for a second longer than usual, and I got nervous again until he reopened them.

"You wanna take a break from this?" I asked, holding up my notebook and pen. Dad shook his head.

"We're runnin' outta time here, Dallas Mathews. If you couldn't tell." He gestured for me to keep writing. "Time, pal, is a-wastin'."

XXXXX

 _Entry #9_

 _Two-Bit Mathews' Guide to Grief_

 _(But he'd really rather you didn't ask him about how to deal with it. See a therapist or something.)_

 _People in your life are gonna die. That ain't something you can avoid, so don't try to._

 _How do you avoid it? Amazingly, the best way to avoid it is to not think about how everyone you've ever known and loved. Because the less you think about our mortality, about how everyone on this planet is marked from the moment they're born to die, the more you're gonna enjoy being alive._

 _And don't think too much about how you're gonna die, too._

 _That all being said, when the time does come that someone you care for dies, you need to realize right off the bat that initially, you really don't have a lot of time to grieve. The time for that comes later, after everything else that happens that comes with death._

 _What else comes with death? Funerals, mostly. And after-parties, believe it or not. You're gonna put the person in the ground or you're gonna spread their ashes, and you're gonna say nice things, and you're gonna want it all to be over the entire time you're doing it. That's normal. In fact, the whole thing is normal when you think about it. But it sure don't feel that way._

 _After the funeral, people gather. At a restaurant or a park if the weather's nice or the bereaved's home. Again, common practice. And people will bring over food and tell you what a good person the deceased was, and people will share their memories even if they're lame. And people will laugh. And people will cry. And the family of the deceased will feel busier than they ever have in their lives and be running all over the place trying touch base with everyone there, when really it should be the mourners approaching them and not the other way around._

 _And then everyone will leave. And you'll be alone._

 _And that's when you really start to feel it. That grief._

 _You just need to sort of…let it happen. Because now, without all these visitors to worry about or a funeral to plan or last wishes to fulfill, it just kinda fills you up. And it sucks. But you have to let it happen because that's how you'll know it's real. And you need to know it's real. Denial is a bitch._

 _It's gonna get better, believe it or not. It'll take time. But it will._

XXXXX

"Dally, Mom and Lisa need you."

I twisted around and saw Mary coming into the room, heard Dad joke, "If it ain't Nurse Mary! What's up, sweetheart?"

"More like Nurse Ratched," I teased, and Mary shot me a look. "What'd Mom and Lisa want?"

Mary shrugged. "Dunno. Just asked for you." I finally noticed that she was starting to administer a bunch of drugs to Dad, and connected the dots that for as much as Mom was probably doing, Mary was doing all of _this_ stuff. The drugs and the vitals and god knows what else. I didn't envy her, either.

"Alright," I said softly. I stood and clapped Dad on the shoulder. "We'll continue this later, old man."

"You got it, Dal," he grinned.

Mom and Lisa were sitting around the dining room table with the guys, all of whom looked a bit shamefaced. I imagine Mom probably gave them a pretty thorough thrashing for what they'd done in church this morning. Mom smiled when she saw me and I sat next to Lisa, who also smiled at me. She leaned in and whispered in my ear, "You should've been here five minutes ago – Mom and Mary fuckin' _thrashed_ 'em." I bit back a grin.

"What's up?" I asked.

"I just got back from the church," Mom said, her hands folded on the table. She spared my uncles a passing glance, a bit sour, then went back to addressing the whole table. "I thought it might be good to talk about this with Mary out of the room – last time I tried she nearly broke down."

"You mean, funeral arrangements," Lisa said. Mom nodded. "Did she really?"

"Really," she sighed. "Look, even with the stunt the five of you pulled at the church today, they've agreed to help us out and said we could do a service there. Had to spin a whole web of lies, but it's done."

"So what's left?" Darry asked tentatively. I got the feeling he wasn't too excited to discuss this topic, either. He'd planned enough funerals in his time. Mom pursed her lips.

"He wants to be buried," she said definitively. "But can't decide between here and Tulsa."

XXXXX

 **AN: We'll leave it there for now, and we'll find out the answer when we pick back up next time. Thanks for your patience on this update! And thanks for reading! Reviews make my day ;)**


	9. Smear the Queer

**Author's Note: Yay, next chapter! Hope the wait wasn't too long.**

 **Warning for some slurs in this chapter. It is not my aim to offend.**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

Planning is hard.

Whatever it is you're planning, I can promise you it probably isn't going smoothly. Doesn't matter when you start. Nothing ever goes according to plan. My father's funeral was certainly no exception. However, I think Dad would've liked it. It was really his sort of funeral.

We're (I'm) getting ahead of our(my)selves(f). Dad's not dead at this point. Instead, the eight of us were sat around one day and we started planning this thing. Darry is already an expert in planning funerals. He basically did his parents' singlehandedly. Darry's good at death, actually. Or, good with it. Everyone puts up a good front whenever someone leaves us, but it's really Darry who deals with it in the healthiest way.

I know for a fact that I'm not good at death. Not good with it, either. And it was starting to show how bad my sisters and I were at it as it became clear that it was really the five real adults in our lives who took over.

"Alright. So the church said they'd do a service," Mom began. "But I have no idea where to have him interred." Lisa made a sour face. "I mean…you guys…you're gonna…"

"I know I'm goin' with Mom and Dad," Soda said, helping her out. "And so's Darry. And Jackie's goin' with Darry."

"You have that all planned out already?" Mary asked, looking pale. Darry shrugged.

"Can't hurt to plan ahead, honey."

But we've already established that nothing you plan for ever really pans out. Mary nodded, looking increasingly like she was about to hurl. All I knew was that she better not do it on me. I didn't get it. Mary saw horrific things at work every day. And I get that this is our family we're talking about, our father she's taking care of, but you'd think she'd be able to handle this a _little_ better than she is.

"Alright," Mom sighed. "Pony, what about you? Are you getting interred in Evanston or Chicago?"

I was a bit surprised when Pony shook his head. "Naw, I'm going with Darry and Jackie and Soda. Rose is going down in Tulsa, too."

"That _is_ where his mother is," Mom mused, talking about our grandmother. Her parents had been buried down there, too. But Mom had always made it clear that Tulsa had never been her home, and that her ass was _staying_ in New York, living and dead. "And where I suspect Sadie will be."

"Bee," Soda said softly, "it don't matter what we're doin'. If he don't know which he'd rather…"

"You could always go for cremation," Steve shrugged, but even he didn't sound satisfied with his own suggestion. Everyone shook their heads.

"No," Mom said. "No, he doesn't want that, he _knows_ he doesn't want that."

"You could put a headstone up in both places," Lisa suggested.

"That's expensive. And still doesn't settle the matter of where he would actually end up."

I was still just watching Mary. She hadn't said anything since she'd come back downstairs. She'd said Dad was fine, sleeping. And, ya know, Mary and Dad didn't always have the best relationship. I know they loved each other – we all know that. The attention she was paying him now was proof of that. She was willing to drop _everything_ for him and take care of him while he was dying. She was seeing him at his absolute worst time in his life – the end of it. And she'd seemed to be handling it. But now, as I watched her hold her head in her hands like it weighed a ton, watched her stare straight at the table, I realized that she wasn't handling this. She wasn't handling this at all. And I suspected that probably had something to do with our old friend Guilt.

"You're staying here," Pony said. "I imagine he'd want to be with you."

"But he wants to be with all of _you_ , too," Mom said miserably, shaking her head. Not crying, but clearly frustrated. I remember when our grandparents had died. We'd all had to fly down to Tulsa for each one – Dad's mom and Mom's parents – but it seemed as if that process had been so much easier. We knew all the time that they were going to be buried in Oklahoma. Knew they didn't want to be cremated, none of them. I remember Grandma Mathews' large Catholic ceremony, with all the incense and singing and people speaking in Italian, including my father and aunt. I remember the Old World feel of it all, meeting these fast-talking foreign relatives that I'd never met before in my life, but all of them treating me like they'd known me my whole life. And maybe they had met me, I don't know. I could only assume that Grandma had told them about us.

Dad and Aunt Sadie had handled it all with such grace. Sadie's husband, Leo, was a man she'd met at the University of Oklahoma where our grandfather had worked. He was a TA at the time they met, a real bookish guy, like Ponyboy (but we all liked Pony better), and I know he'd had a lot to do with the planning, too, but Dad and Sadie were really running the show. When our grandparents on Mom's side had died, she'd done the same. She'd planned them both essentially on her own. So I know both of my parents could handle this responsibility, this burden.

But, more bad as this may sound, I think my parents were having a harder time letting go of each other than they did their parents.

"Not to be an asshole," Lisa interjected, "but I kinda selfishly want Dad to stay up here. Because I don't want him to be in one place while Mom ends up in another." She shot our uncles a look. "I'm sorry," she said shyly. "But…I don't know…."

"Don't apologize, Lis," Steve said, shaking his head. "Look, nobody's sayin' your dad has to be buried in Tulsa. Okay? So let's just –"

"I can't do this," Mary suddenly cut in, sitting up rod-straight. She swallowed. "I can't."

"Mary…" Mom began carefully, and suddenly we were all looking at Mary, who really _did_ look like she was about to puke her guts up all over the dining room. I tried scooting away from her, as a precautionary measure, but ended up bumping into Steve, who smirked at me knowingly. "Mary, hon, what's wrong? Sweetheart, you don't have to do this."

"You're already doing enough," Darry said gently. "We all know you are."

Mary glanced my way. In that moment, we got each other. She was trying to tell me that she knew what Dad and I were really up to, that she was jealous, that all she wanted was to believe that Dad really loved her and that she really _was_ doing enough. And I knew all that because she said, "No, I'm not," and bolted for the bathroom, and we could all hear her losing the contents of her stomach.

"Here," Mom eventually said, voice soft and sighing. "We'll bury him here."

XXXXX

"Dad?"

I didn't roll over to look at Sam. Just kept staring up at the ceiling. I hadn't even known he was still awake. Or maybe he'd woken up when I came to bed, after I finished writing the tenth entry. "Yeah, Sammy?"

I heard him roll over, probably to face me. "Is something wrong with Grampa?"

I swallowed roughly. "Uh-huh."

"Is he sick?"

"Yeah."

"Is he gonna die?"

I took a deep breath. "Yeah."

"When?"

"Soon."

"How soon?"

I almost said _not soon enough._ Because that was the truth. The sooner Dad died, the sooner he'd be put out of his misery, and the sooner I could wallow in mine. "I don't know," I said, my voice sounding unsure and small.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"Is Mom dead?"

I raised my eyebrows. "I don't think so. Why?"

He shrugged. "Dunno," he whispered. "Do you wish she were?"

I sighed. It was hard talking about his mother with him. He didn't talk for a month after she left, and now…well, truth is, I wouldn't care if she was. The only thing I'd gotten from her in the past several months was a note that said she was never coming back, and she left me to clean up the mess. And when Sam started talking again, I was so happy that I just didn't bother messing with the other stuff. "No," I lied. "But, Sammy, you need to know…kiddo, she's not coming back."

"I don't want her to," he breathed. "Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"What happens when you die?" Sam asked softly, reverently, he and I practically nose-to-nose. I thought about it.

"Some people think there's a place you go. Heaven if you're good. Hell if you're bad. Some people think nothing happens." I pursed my lips. "There's this writer, named Shakespeare. He wrote a lot of plays. Wanna know what he says happens when you die?" Sam nodded. " _'To die, to sleep – to sleep, perchance to dream. For in this sleep of death what dreams may come_.'"

"What's that s'posed to mean?" He asked, confused.

"It means that when you die, it might just be like sleeping. And when we sleep, we dream. And we'll live out eternity in our dreams."

"Oh. Daddy?"

"Yeah, Sammy."

His eyes welled up and he whispered, "I don't want Grampa to die."

Sam threw his arms awkwardly around my neck, and I pulled him close to my chest. "Me neither, buddy. Me neither," I whispered, and we fell asleep that way.

XXXXX

Growing up, there was this kid named George – Georgie Parker, because for some reason we all called him that – that lived a few houses or so down from us. He was mine and Tony's age. He went to school with us. I remember that he kinda had a rough go of it. He had huge coke-bottle glasses that made his eyes look huge. His voice could really only be described as a whisper. He cleaned up _too_ nice, like some nerd at NASA or something. And he was smart. Tony and I didn't really mind him all that much, and when all us guys would go out behind our houses or to the park to play ball, we'd usually be the drips that invited him along because no one else would. Really, I think I mostly did it at Mom's insistence.

"It's not always as easy for everyone as it is for you to make friends, Dallas," she told me. "He could use one."

Dad always agreed with her, nodding along, say something along the lines of, "He kinda reminds me of a kid I grew up with," and I know now that he was referring to Johnny Cade, with his scar and quiet voice and bad home life.

Tony really wasn't on board at first. I mean, we were in like…middle school. We still played stupid games like Smear the Queer and were just discovering the wonderful world of innuendo and dick jokes. Everything was phallic. And every kid like Georgie got called a fag, for no other reason than he just wasn't like the rest of us guys.

"C'mon, man," Tony would wheedle. "He's such a geek. If you keep invitin' him along, the other guys are gonna stop wantin' to play with us."

"No they won't," I'd protest. "You're a real good short stop, and I'm a better catcher than any of 'em. They won't ask us to stop playin'. 'Sides – it's my mom's idea. If I don't ask 'im, she'll get pissed." That was another thing – swearing was so liberating when we were twelve, thirteen. By twelve, my father wasn't at all surprised that swear words had found their way into my regular conversation, though Mom still half-heartedly scolded me for it.

"Oh, alright," Tony would sigh, and we'd walk down the street with our bats and gloves and ballcaps on our heads, and knock on Georgie's door and invite him down to the park to play with us.

Georgie wasn't really that great a baseball player. Which, ya know, is fine. Some of us guys were great at it – like me and Tony and a couple others – because it was just about all we cared about. Some were good, or were just out there to expend some energy. And then there was Georgie, who just...yeah. The other guys needled him for it, and I know I did, too, but I always said sorry on the walk back home.

"I didn't mean it, Georgie," I'd tell him every time. "I was just playin' with ya. Ya know?"

"Yeah."

"Alright then. I'm sorry, Georgie."

"It's okay."

That was how it went. Georgie was a man of few words. He didn't even seem to really want to talk. He let me and Tony do all the talking for him, and sometimes he'd kinda smile or laugh a bit, or chime in with a "yeah" or "Did you see that game/episode/movie last night?" and set me and Tony off again. He never really talked about himself or anything, but when I was a kid, I didn't really notice it. It didn't make me think that maybe something was wrong.

I think it was eighth grade that his father died.

Georgie Parker didn't have a _bad_ home life. But I never remember seeing his dad. Just remember one day when Tony and I invited him to the park to play ball, like we did almost every weekend, he said he couldn't come because he had to go to his dad's funeral. And it was talk at the dinner table that evening. Tony and I hadn't talked about it at all. Tony knew what it was like to not have a dad – his had been arrested and wasn't ever coming back, Odette made sure of that. But I had no idea what that was like.

"Did he say what happened?" Dad asked, watching me with concerned eyes, though the concern wasn't for me. I shrugged, glancing down at my plate and playing with my food.

"Nah," I said, trying to sound casual, but truth was, I felt real bad for Georgie. He got a bum rap and couldn't play baseball and now he had a dead dad. "He didn't say."

"That's just awful," Mom sighed, turning away from Lisa, who was complaining about not wanting to eat something-or-other, a job Dad always left for Mom to deal with. Lisa was such a picky eater. Mary was sixteen, punk, and had decided she'd rather just ignore the rest of us. I don't even know if she was really hearing the conversation. "That's a hard thing, not having one of your parents."

"Sure is," Dad said, quiet but sure. He and Mom both seemed pretty rocked by Mr. Parker's death, and I don't think they even knew him. I think it had to do with the fact that both of them knew what it was like, not having one of your parents around, Dad specifically knowing the feeling of missing your father. His had killed himself when Dad was eighteen after being gone for nine years. And Mom's mom had left not long after she was born. I couldn't imagine it. My parents annoyed me, sure. They made me hang out with this square and got on me about doing my homework and yelled at me for breaking curfew, but I knew they'd never leave me. Hell, I was convinced that neither of them could die, even at fourteen. I believed with every fiber of my being that they'd always be there.

That's not the end of the story, though.

Georgie was back on the diamond a couple weeks later. And it went like it always did, except when I'd left the house that day, Mom had told me to be extra nice to him and not pry about his dad. He'd talk about it if he felt like it (which I seriously doubted, considering Georgie didn't really like to talk). And the three of us walked down to the park with our gear, not saying much of anything, because what do you say?

It wasn't the cleanest game of baseball ever played. Tony let too many balls get by him. I made too many wrong calls for the pitcher, Danny Walker. Rodriguez, the right fielder, missed too many pop-ups. But some games are like that, and even when I was fourteen and lived and breathed the game, I knew that really, this was all just for fun. This wasn't a real game.

Georgie was always on mine and Tony's team. Where the defense was lacking that day, the offense had delivered. Past the fence was a home run, and our team had three of those. The bases were loaded, and I was on third and getting way too excited. Like I said, I knew –logically – that this was just a friendly neighborhood game. But c'mon! Bases loaded, and if the next guy hits this, we win. Payback for last week, when Jimmy Funicello's team won with a two-run homer. Revenge sure is good motivation.

I threw a glance towards Tony, who was on first. He always had a tendency to go for the high ones, and this time, it had paid off for him. He winked at me, and I bit back a grin. Rodriguez was on second, and I could tell he was getting antsy.

And then Georgie Parker came up to the plate.

He didn't have a bad stance, or even a bad swing. But it's like he was scared of the ball, or overthought it or _something,_ because he wasn't really a reliable hitter. Or a reliable…anything, for that matter. But us guys on base, still wanting him to bring at least _one_ of us in (me, me, ME), cheered him on.

"Let's go, Parker."

"Bring Mathews home, Parker."

"S'go, man, bring us home."

Funicello got into his stance. I was starting to lead off a bit, eager to run towards home the second the ball got hit. Funicello wound up, threw his pitch. First one was a strike. Okay. No worries. It happens. Funicello threw a couple of balls next, and started to look nervous. Good. Georgie tagged the next one foul, and with a nearly full count, Funicello wound up one last time, Georgie got ready –

And fucking wiffed it.

End of the inning. End of the _game_. Jimmy Funicello started bragging like the fucker he is and called me a wop the three of us left, which is stupid cuz I'm only a quarter Italian and Funicello's the one who bled fucking spaghetti sauce. He went on about how I made too many bad calls, how shit I was, how there was no way in hell I'd ever make the team next year. That was a soft spot for me. That had been all I had wanted for years, and Jimmy knew it. I was fuming. I liked to win. It was about all I cared about back then, even in little games like this one. And Georgie had fucking ruined it for me.

"You need to calm down, man," Tony said to me on the way back. "Be cool."

"Did you hear that asshole?" I asked. "What a fucking asshole. Man, I hate 'im."

"Jimmy's not all bad," Georgie said quietly.

I stopped walking. So did they. "Yeah, you'd think that, Georgie Parker, just cuz he's been bein' nice to you ever since your old man died. But that's just to your face – he still calls you a fag and a queer behind your back, just like everyone else. And we all talk about how shitty you are at playing ball. So why don't you just shut the fuck up, Georgie, cuz nobody actually fuckin' likes you."

Tony and Georgie stared at me like I was a whole different person. And hell, in that moment, I had been. As soon as I said it, I started to apologize, but that's when I heard:

"Dallas!"

I turned around. I was such a fucking idiot. We were in front of my house, and my Dad was standing at the top of the porch steps, hands on his hips. He was getting ready to go to work. Instead, he was staring me down.

"Dad?"

He waved to Tony and Georgie. "See y'all later, boys."

Georgie and Tony glanced at each other, then went their separate ways. Dad beckoned me to him, and I slowly made my way towards the house, like I was being led to the gallows. As soon as I was stood in front of him, Dad yanked me into the house by the arm and threw me down at the kitchen table.

Let me tell you something: Keith Mathews and Two-Bit Mathews are two very different people. Keith is the fairly respectable, blue-collar, easygoing bartender with a cute, rich wife and three kids. Two-Bit Mathews is the kid in the leather jacket and cowboy boots that isn't afraid for one second to kick your ass – good humor be damned. And it was Two-Bit who chewed me out that day, and I mean _really_ chewed me out. I thought he was gonna start whipping me with that bat I'd been carrying he was so mad.

"Dad –" I tried, wanting to explain myself, but he cut me off. I'd never seen him like this before, and I haven't seen him like this since.

"I don't want to fucking hear it," he bit out, with an angry laugh. "You don't know what that kid's been through. You got a damn charmed life here, pal, and that was…that was…I don't know what the _fuck_ that was, but goddammit, Dallas…"

He trailed off and bit his lip, ran a hand down his face and across his beard. I wonder now if he was thinking of kids like Johnny Cade, or Uncle Steve, whose mother had died when he was young. Or, for fuck's sake, the _Curtises_ , who'd lost both of their parents on the same night.

"My father left when I was nine," he continued. "And he hanged himself nine years later. He got in big trouble with some betting he was doing, and he owed somebody about two-thousand dollars. And he chickened out. And I had to clean up his mess for him. Two-thousand bucks, kid. I hadn't seen that much money in my _life_ by the time I was eighteen." Dad pursed his lips. "You listen to me and you listen to me good, Dallas Mathews. You're damn lucky. You don't wanna know the shit that I'd had to put up with by the time I was your age. And you don't know what that poor kid is going through, and you just called him a fucking _fag_ loud enough for the whole damn neighborhood to hear!"

"I was angry, Dad, I didn't mean it," I tried timidly. But Dad wasn't having it.

"Dallas," he began again, voice shaking, " _I don't fucking care._ "

XXXXX

I was debating hard whether or not to include that as an entry. On the one hand, it really made me look like an asshole. On the other, it made Dad look real good. I was torn, sitting in the living room with my uncles while they watched TV or read or whatever. I think Steve and Soda were playing cards. Mary came into the room, looking a lot better than she had earlier.

"Someone's color's back," Darry noticed, and Mary gave him a shaky smile.

"Yeah," she said. "Guess it is." Mary sat next to me. "Hey, Dal."

"Hey," I said softly. "How you feelin'?"

She shrugged. "Better. I'm…I'm sorry, about earlier."

"It's okay," I shook my head. "I get it. This is hard."

"Harder than I thought," she admitted. "I was talking to James about it" – I had to refrain from rolling my eyes at the mention of her husband – "and I dunno, that helped. When…when _it_ happens, they'll all come up here. Dallas?"

"Yeah?"

Mary bit her lip. "Um. How…how are you doing, without…without…your ex-wife?" She asked softly, so no one could hear over the sound of the TV. "Don't you wish you had someone to talk to about this _besides_ us?"

"There's Tony," I shrugged, thinking about what might become the latest entry, the one about Georgie. Tony was mad at me after I did that. Really chewed me out. And he hadn't even wanted to hang with Georgie in the first place. But he at least let me tell my side. That whole situation didn't end real well, though.

"Yeah, but Dad is also sorta Tony's dad," she said.

"Mary. I really don't want to talk about this," I whispered. "I don't want to talk about her."

"Dallas –"

" _I don't want to talk about her_ ," I hissed. "I can barely talk about her with Sam, so just _drop it_ , okay? Just go bug someone else, okay?"

Mary looked a bit taken aback, and I sighed. "Sorry," I mumbled.

"It's okay. I wanted to tell you something else."

"What's that?"

She smirked. "I was talking to Dad – it's official. You're soon to be the owner of the family business."

XXXXX

 **AN: More about that next chapter ;)**

 **Thanks for reading! Reviews are my drug, y'all.**


	10. Miracle of Miracles

**Author's Note: Welcome back! Nice and long one for you here. Heads-up: this chapter is so schmaltzy. So much schmaltz. The Bee x Two-Bit is strong in this one. But hey – without the two of them, I wouldn't be telling this story, would I?**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

My father has a lot to say about Bee Stevens.

XXXXX

"Wait – what the hell is that s'posed to mean?" I squawked, staring bug-eyed at Mary. Me? Own Dad's bar? Doesn't he know I already have a job? I know he knows I already have a job. He knows that. He knows everything about me. He knows _too much_ about me.

I'm a professor of American History at Syracuse. I teach classes about the American Revolution and Cold War America. I've written about both periods. Written papers about the inevitability of the Civil War and the lingering effects of Jim Crow. I love it. I met my ex-wife there, a professor of Shakespearean literature. I met her there and –

And that's why Dad wants me to leave and take over the bar.

"Dally," Mary sighed, "I know I usually don't go with Dad's hair-brained schemes, but…I think he might be right on this one. I think you should do this."

I shook my head. "Mary, I have a life there. So does Sam. I can't just _leave._ "

"Sure you can," she shrugged. "And I think it'll be good for you. Both of you. And it'd be nice, when this is all over, to have you close to home."

Mary cast her eyes down, and I sighed.

"I'll think about it," I mumbled. "But it prolly won't happen."

She smirked. "If that's what you need to tell yourself. Okay, Dally. You think about it."

I had the funny feeling that the decision had already been made for me.

XXXXX

I put the story about Georgie in the book. It didn't feel good, but it did feel right. Once I was finished with that, I went to find Dad, who was sitting down in the basement at the wet bar with his buddies. I had my notebook and pen tucked under my arm, and I tried to look casual and cool as I walked in. The five of them were screwing around, Soda and Steve acting like they were Tom Cruise in _Cocktail_ and failing miserably. I cleared my throat and they all looked over at me.

"Well, look who it is," Steve drawled lazily. "Mr. Dallas Mathews come to ruin our fun."

"Lookin' for trouble, Dally?" Soda asked.

"Dallas Senior was sure good at that," Dad said, and they all laughed. I smiled tightly.

"Y'all're so _funny_ ," I said sarcastically, and Darry muttered a _'damn straight.'_ "But you four need to get lost – Dad and I have work to do."

They all groaned dramatically. "Dallas, kid, why you gotta keep stealin' him from us like this?" Pony asked. "Time's running out!"

I shrugged. "Alright, then. Then you all can sit around and listen."

"You mean, listen to your father talk?" Darry asked dramatically. "Like we've been doin' for fifty years? I don't know how we'll manage."

"Ha ha," Dad deadpanned. "Like I haven't had to listen to any of the rest of y'all spin your yarns. What're you thinkin' 'bout askin', kiddo?"

I sat on the couch while Dad sat at the wet bar, looking like he belonged there. "I was thinkin'," I began carefully, "that maybe today, you should talk to me about Mom."

Dad raised an eyebrow. "She ain't the one dyin', kid."

"I know," I drawled, "but _you_ are, and you sorta, ya know…love her and all."

"So do you."

I rolled my eyes. "I guess what I really meant is that you should talk about you _and_ her, as like a unit. Ya know?"

Dad smiled. " _Ah_ ," he breathed. "I get ya. My, my. When the three of you were kids, you didn't want to hear a single thing about us."

"Like Pony said, time's running out. And Mom's version of things is always different," I shrugged. "C'mon. She'll want to read what you have to say, too, I'll bet."

"You know how your parents met, right?" Soda asked. He was now sprawled across the other couch with his eyes closed, but he obviously wasn't asleep. I nodded.

"Yeah. But, there's so much I probably don't know. And, I mean, fifty years is a long time…"

"Then talk to Steve," Dad cut in. "He's been with Evie since he was fifteen."

"Again, Steve's not the one who's dying, it's _you_ ," I reminded him. "C'mon," I needled. "You must have a lot to say about her."

"He sure does," Darry interjected. "Couldn't fuckin' shut up about her once he met her."

"Damn straight," Pony agreed, nodding his head. "Ah, young love."

"Y'all need to shut up," Dad laughed. "Okay! Fine. I'll talk to you about your mom. Whaddyah wanna know?"

XXXXX

 _Entry #11_

 _(Or, the entry all about my mother, Bridget Stevens, with an intro by me, her son)_

My parents met on my mother's first day of school in Tulsa. She and her father had moved from Manhattan after my grandfather had taken a position at the Oklahoma State, and if that isn't culture shock, I don't know what is. And my parents didn't exactly like each other. Like, at all. See, there was this weird class war in Tulsa at the time, and my parents were from opposite sides of town. Mom was a rich socialite, and Dad was…well, greaser really does seem an antiquated term, even back then, one that makes me think more of Marlon Brando and _Rebel Without a Cause_ than my Okie father, but that's what they called themselves and that's what the socs called them, so that's that. But there was also the fact that Dad just really annoyed Mom and he knew that he did and was making a conscious effort to. And Mom? Mom was new to town and scared and had to work real hard to pretend she hated him when really, she was scared of him. Hate equals love, right? Guess so, because they're still together. And us three kids knew that would always be the case.

So I'm gonna let the old man take it from here.

 _Part One: The Beginning_

I can't claim to be a man of high intelligence. I can't rightfully say I remember my mother's birthday or my father's middle name or even what I had for breakfast this morning. I don't recall much of anything that happened before I turned eight, and sometimes I even forget for a moment which way is left and which is right. ("Just for a second, okay? Don't fucking give me that look!")

But there are some things you just don't forget. And after fifty years of deliberation, I'm only slightly embarrassed to admit that I probably fell in love with Bridget Stevens the moment I saw her.

("I kinda feel stupid saying that, but ya know what? Shut up. All of you. Oh my fucking _god_ , Steve, quit laughing.")

Bridget Stevens was already sitting down in Mr. James's US History class when I walked in. I was a minute or so late. There was only one more open seat, right behind her. I opened that door, and everybody looked up. But she's the only one I really noticed. It was those subtle things about her that I noticed: her lips were parted just enough that I could see the small gap between her front two teeth. She had eyes greener than grass and bigger than a cow's. She musta been annoyed or somethin' 'cuz her nose was all scrunched up and her eyebrows made it so that there was a crease right between them. Her skin was white and dusted with freckles that just screamed at you. And her hair was somethin' else - curling down past her shoulders, tight, frizzy, and blacker than night.

I had to force myself to move. Siddown, Keith. She's just some gal - ya don't even know her name.

Bridget Stevens. Oh, she _despised_ me. I liked to pull on those ringlets like they were mine to pull, like I was some mean ol' playground bully. She liked to glare at me, and her nose would scrunch up. I called her the Raven because she taunted me, though she thought it was because of her hair. I called her Bee and peach and honey because I've always been one for pet names, though I told her it was because she was like a honey bee, buzzin' around and annoying me.

I liked to talk dirty with Jimmy Hopper, the guy that sat next to me. He was a greaser like me, and we talked about things going on in our turfs. Bridget sat next to Missy Redar, a socialite like her. They were country club members and cheerleaders. She was outta my league, cuz ya know, when you're a Jet, you stay a Jet. ("From your first cigarette to your last dyin' day!") It wasn't s'posed to happen. I said fuck it.

XXXXX

It wasn't easy. A lot happened in the year I met her. To me, to her. To everybody I cared about. Years later, she told me that she thought that if none of it had happened – if Pony hadn't run away, Johnny and Dallas hadn't died, my father hadn't killed himself – she didn't think we would've ended up together. Because we wouldn't have been able to see each other as we truly are, not who we thought the other was.

And hell, I agree with her.

XXXXX

I visited her once when it was raining. I mean, okay, that sounds stupid cuz I visited her many times when it was raining, but this one stands out in my mind very clearly. Bridget had been stuck in her house for a few days, and even though she was eighteen and perfectly capable of taking care of herself, she had been commanded to spend the days her father was out of town at the house. With the rain, she couldn't even get outside. Hell - I came over and turned that house upside-down.

"What're you, five?" She asked me. "You're acting like a crazy person."

"Hell, baby, maybe I am." I winked at her, and she scowled. Always with the scowling or the eye-rolling or the big sighing. Yes, I'm well aware that I annoy Bridget Stevens to no end. But for some reason, no matter what her reason was, she still liked me, she _really liked me!_ And when you're a young guy, all you care about is girls. Well, I only cared about the one, but you know what I mean.

"I just may be, Honey Bee," I acknowledged. "Your old man wouldn't _really_ know if you left the house, would he?"

"Oh, he probably would…hey, where're you going?"

"Out."

I stood out in the middle of the yard with my arms held out to the side and my fingers splayed wide open. Bridget was standing on the porch, staring out at me. "What are you doing?" She cried. "You ought to get inside, Two-Bit Mathews, or you'll catch pneumonia."

I doubted that very much, seeing as to how it was a spring rain, warm and sticky. I'm a healthy guy anyways; a bit of rain didn't scare me one bit. I guess my health never was on the forefront of my mind, was it?

"C'mon in," she tried again. I shook my head.

"Naw, baby - come join me!"

I held out my hand to her, beckoning her. When she finally did cross the yard to stand with me, she just shook her head. "You're nuts."

"'Bout you? Yes, ma'am."

XXXXX

Oklahoma has a good state fair. Good midway, lots of rigged games, lots of fried food and funnel cake. Soda likes the horses. I took Bee there with my buddies and Steve's gal Evie once. Bee wore a pink sundress and hung onto my arm the whole night. I hardly ever bothered to clean up nice, but we were a pair that night. I wore one of those white button-down shirts and my nicest pair of jeans and boots. Yeah, we were a pair. Bee used to get to teasin' me about those boots. How I looked like some cowboy wearing them. And I got to tease her back about her Yankee accent, how she sounded like she had a head cold all the damn time, and how her nasally accent was commencing to give me a migraine. She didn't appreciate it so much and smacked my chest, but I knew she wasn't really that mad. She was still hangin' on to me.

XXXXX

I know you've all seen _West Side Story_. That's what it was like. Except better because I didn't fucking _die._

 _Part Two: The Middle_

I was in Vietnam right at the peak of our presence in country. Some – what? – 500,000 or so soldiers? And Steve and I, we were two of 'em. Think of that. Just two guys out of 500,000 out in the jungle. What were the odds that the both of us would come home? Soda had already come home. But would we?

I think Bridget knew the odds. And I knew she hated that war. She'd gone to college. She'd been gone a year by the time I was drafted. She was becoming somebody. She had talent. She was gonna sell out Carnegie Hall. I figured that the distance between us would eventually become too much for her. She'd fall in love with a TA, or some drip majoring in trombone studies, or some hippie. That's not what happened. But I guess it sorta was the distance, cuz New York to Vietnam? Kinda far. And she read _Ms._ Magazine and hated Richard Nixon and marched and took up the guitar like she was destined to be a folk singer instead of the next Lili Pons ("Don't ask me why I know who she is. Shut up. Shut up!") like I knew she would be.

She wrote me maybe the most beautiful letter ever written in the English language to tell me it was over.

XXXXX

I almost died there. And that pissed me off. I still have the scar.

XXXXX

I met her again in the fucking _grocery store_ of all places. Three years later. She still looked the same even though I knew I'd changed. Knew I probably looked different because when I looked in the mirror each morning, even _I_ didn't recognize myself. Not always.

"We should get a drink sometime," I told her as we walked out together. I'd offered to carry her bags. She was too polite to say no.

"We should," she agreed easily. "Catch up."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," she smiled.

XXXXX

Remember what I said about _West Side Story?_ Well, wouldn't you know, some years later, Bee Stevens played Maria, and some John was her Tony. But fuck that, cuz we all know that _I'm_ her fucking Tony. But I didn't fucking die. Not yet.

"You look upset," she said to me after the first show, but she really looked amused.

"Naw," I waved her off, "you were great. Awards show material. Think you'll beat that chick from _A Chorus Line?"_

Bee shook her head. A group of people passed by, giving her flowers and congratulations, which she accepted as gracefully as you might expect. "You're _jealous_ ," she sing-songed. "C'mon, Two-Bit. You don't have to worry about him. I still like you best."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? And why shouldn't I worry, huh?"

She smirked and leaned in, whispering theatrically. I could barely hear her over the din of all the noise in and around the dressing rooms. Maybe that was the point. "Two-Bit. No straight man on the planet Earth kisses like _that_."

XXXXX

Alright. So I went to Vietnam. I watched my buddy get shot dead before my own eyes. I've seen horrible, horrible things. Things that should've scared me more than they did. But the scariest thing that's ever happened to me was having kids. ("Does that sound bad?" "Well…I dunno. Kids _are_ pretty fucking scary, man.") See, a few months after I was reunited with Bee, I asked her to marry me. And I _wanted_ to marry her, I really did. And she said yes, without even really having to think about it. Which is good because that ring set me back a pretty penny.

But we were both still kids, really. And every time she tried to start planning something, I'd get scared.

So we were engaged for three years.

("I didn't know that part." "You didn't?" "No." "Hell yeah, kiddo. Two-Bit Mathews is the master at dragging his feet.")

Which meant that in the end, we got married because Bee became pregnant.

I think I remember the night Mary…happened. Came into being. However you want to say it. And I don't exactly want to turn this into a bull session, but _y'all…_

Anyway.

Secretly, I didn't know if her body could handle it. Bee had always seemed so scared, so small in a world that's just too big. I always worried about her more than I worried about myself. But she managed, somehow. She managed to smile through our wedding, even as miserable as she was at five months in. You can't even tell in the pictures.

But she screamed bloody murder, apparently, when she had the baby. That's what I heard from the nurses. See, I wasn't there. The first time I ever experienced the shitshow that is childbirth was with Lisa. Which, after witnessing that, I was almost glad I didn't have to be there when Mary and Dallas were born.

That first time, all I could do was go to work and worry the whole time. I didn't own the bar just yet, so the man that willed it to me was there, and he kept shooting me funny, amused glances. But nothing was fucking funny! What if something went wrong? What if the baby was sick? What if the baby died? What if _she_ died?

She didn't die, and neither did the baby. I got a call after who knows how long that said it was over and I could see my wife and daughter now, and that was that.

I had a daughter. "Mary Elizabeth," Bee told me with a proud smile. "Mary Elizabeth Mathews."

Mary Elizabeth had downy, black hair and her eyes turned out to be green. The fact that she turned out looking just like her mother is probably what did me in right away. I had no clue I'd be able to love her like I did, and mostly, I just stared at her. Happy accident.

That's what Dallas was, too. Though, Bridget was even more miserable with him, which really justifies his name all the more.

Did you know that "morning sickness" is really just a term? Because pregnant ladies don't just throw up in the morning. They puke whenever. And Bee puked pretty much every day, multiple times a day, when she was carrying Dallas. ("Ugh, Dad, that's _gross_." "What? It's the truth! The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.") And he came a month early. I was the one rushed her to the hospital, but they still told me I couldn't be there when he was born. This time, though, instead of going to work, I just sat against a wall and worried.

See, I'm not really a worrier. But I guess people change.

This time, there was no call. A nurse just found me. Leaning against the white wall of the maternity ward.

"Are you Mrs. Mathews' husband?" She asked. She had short blonde hair that reached her jawline, and thick bangs that went straight across and completely hid her forehead. I saw her white shoes first, though. I couldn't bring myself to look at her face at first.

"I am."

"You can see her now."

I looked up. She didn't look anything but neutral. "How is she?"

"She's tired."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And what about my baby?"

There was a split second there where I was sure she was gonna tell me my baby was dead. "Your son is with the doctor. He should be alright."

I let out a breath that I hadn't realized I was holding.

I named our son because I'd made a promise to Ponyboy Curtis ("Oh, Two-Bit, man…" "What? You did the same thing, too. Don't pretend like you didn't. Don't pretend you didn't make me _swear_ to you that I'd do this.") I named our son after a delinquent, hoping this one would be better at this whole Life thing. ("Dad…c'mon, man." "If it means anything, honey, you have.") And Bee was mad at first. But then she got used to the idea, and our son was who really defined "Dallas."

And then there was Lisa. Lisa, who Bee asked for because she finally had room in her life to decide she wanted a baby, not have Life decide for her.

"I want another baby, Two-Bit," she told me. "I just do."

"You realize that's another mouth I have to work to feed, right?"

"You realize that I'm willing to give up my body for nine months again to do this, right?"

We had another baby. Four years after the last one. It's funny – it's like I didn't notice all that time go by. Three kids in six years?

Building nurseries. Crying babies. Teething. Bronze boots. Strollers. Kindergarten. "Yes, you're getting another sibling." Yelling at the top of my lungs. Laughing cuz these kids are funny without even trying. Bedtime stories. Reading _Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret_ and not knowing how to tell your daughter what a period is. Dinners that Mama made. Croup and ear infections. Daddy coming home late. "Mom, I think I have cancer." "No, I think you got your period." The kitten I found behind the bar that the kids claimed as theirs. Baseball games. "Two-Bit, your son's a real natural." Telling adults you're gonna be a Yankee. Diabetes. "Dad, I'm so sorry, but the _car…_ " Ballet and orchestra recitals. "What the _hell_ are you wearing?" Bringing home the Christmas tree. Having everyone up here for Thanksgiving. _Holiday Inn_ on a constant loop in the family room. Going to see _Forrest Gump_ and flashing _way_ back. The oldest one getting caught in the act, making the walk of shame and telling me to my face – but she got into college! The middle one, the boy, showin' 'em up when the recruiters actually called and said they needed a catcher. A certain littlest redhead getting into Julliard. And a lotta hell and high water in between.

Sometimes, I was so busy being Mary, Dallas, and Lisa's dad that I forgot I was Bee's husband.

 _Part Three: The End_

Things changed when Lisa left.

When we had Mary, we knew we had a long road ahead of us. Longer when we had Dallas. Longer still when we had Lisa. Lisa was home for another _six years_ after Mary left.

And then she was gone.

Bee really felt that. She'd attached so much to our children. Her heart and soul. And I had, too. Because neither of us wanted any of our kids to have a childhood that was anything like ours. And at first, it was hard. Like we had no idea what to do with ourselves. Eventually, it got to the point where we didn't have to worry about when or where we had sex, which, yes, _that still happened, shut up,_ and it felt closer to what it was like when we were kids, twenty-somethings. Different, yes. But in so many ways exactly the same. Somehow, she still looked like herself, even though we spent our days tooling around New York instead of Tulsa. I was fifty-one when Lisa left for school, and she was forty-nine. We've had a while to adjust to the changes of going back to being alone. And it was good.

But it also somehow felt wrong.

XXXXX

That's not to say I don't still love her. I do. Too much, prolly. It's that I got so used to everything else that I had to remember what it was like to give her all of my attention. But it was a welcome readjustment.

XXXXX

She was a lot more excited than I was about Mary getting married. Especially when the guy was some senator's son and would be taking her away from us, drag her down to DC. I had to give her away. Literally.

XXXXX

Neither of us were excited about Dallas getting married. Neither of us liked that woman.

XXXXX

I'm glad Lisa's not married yet because I don't think I could stand giving away another one of my daughters.

XXXXX

Grandkids are cool. I should know – I've got four of 'em. Problem is, I know that I'm only ever going to get to know the four of them, and not as well as I would like. I've got one, Sam. He's five, and he'll always be five to me because I'll never know him any older. And I don't pick favorites, but I've got a soft spot for the poor kid because…well, I get what it's like. To not have somebody important in your life.

But he has a good dad.

Mary's first was a son. And then a daughter. And then another son. It's funny, how when they're growing up, it doesn't occur to you that one day, some kid of _theirs_ is gonna put you through the same shit they're putting _you_ through. And then it's sorta funny because you know what? They need to see it from both sides. It's the natural order of things.

XXXXX

Ya know, when we met, when she was sixteen and I was eighteen, I think we were more aware of death than we were twenty years later. And another twenty years later. We knew better what it could do to us. Because of everything we'd seen. You'd think we'd recognize it.

I got sick real quick and real slow at the same time.

It was hiding in me. Waiting. I was somehow too busy to notice.

"That cough sounds bad," she said to me.

"They always sound bad. I'm old," I shrugged, not even looking up at her from the paper.

"You should go to the doctor."

"Nah."

"Please? Two-Bit, you haven't gone to work in a week. Please."

"Ya know what? Let's just ask Mary. She's a nurse. She'll tell me if I need to go to the doctor."

XXXXX

"Dad, you need to go to the doctor."

Mary was trouble when she was younger. She'd told me numerous times that she hated me. She hated me when I grounded her for sneaking out to CBGB. She hated me when I caught her with that boy. Hell, she even hated me when her mother and I brought home her siblings. And everything was always my fault. But, when she looked at me that day, standing over me in my own bedroom, with that funny look on her face, I knew she didn't hate me. I mean, I'd always _known_ that. But not always.

XXXXX

So this is how the universe decided to end it.

("You're the one who didn't quit smokin'." "Neither have _you_ , Steven.")

"Lung cancer," Bee said for the millionth time. We were sitting side-by-side on the couch, not looking at each other. The TV was on, but I don't remember what the show was. I just remember how her voice sounded: tired and angry and sad and distant.

"Lung cancer," I repeated.

"I can't believe you could do this to us," she breathed. "You…you said you _quit_. When _Mary_ was born."

"I know."

"You _lied_."

"I did."

We fought like we've never fought before. Not in nearly fifty years. She screamed, and you better believe me when I say she's got a pair of lungs on her cuz she was rattling the windows. I screamed back, but I could feel how hard it was getting already. I don't even really remember what we were screaming about, and I don't know if we were mad at each other so much as we were mad at the situation. And yeah – I was mad. I _am_ mad. Because I don't want to leave her. I don't want to leave _any_ of you. Truth is, it's kinda embarrassing, being the first after Dallas and Johnny to go. ("Does that make sense?" "Yeah." "My money was on Darry, to be honest.")

That night, we were lying side-by-side. We were the only ones who knew. It was too quiet, except for Bee's crying.

"You can't leave me," she whispered.

"I have to. There ain't no way to stop it," I whispered back, like I was afraid of being overheard. An old habit from when there were kids in the house.

"I never…not since you were in Vietnam…" She sighed. "I never even considered this part of it."

"What's 'it'?"

Her arm ended up flung across my chest and she rested her head against my shoulder. My breath caught. "Being in love," she mumbled. "This is the worst part."

I'd never considered it either. Well, not since Vietnam. But she was right. This was the worst part.

XXXXX

"This _is_ the worst part," Dad corrected himself. He'd managed his way through a couple of drinks telling their story, and my hand was cramping just by trying to keep up with him.

"I'm sorry," I told him, and his buddies nodded their agreement.

"You shouldn't be embarrassed, ya know," Pony said quietly. "At the end of the day…well, the _cancer_ ain't your fault. You didn't ask for this. And Jesus, Two-Bit. It's gonna happen to all of us someday."

Dad shot him a wry look. "Well, thanks, Ponyboy. You really are good at cheerin' people up."

"But he's right," Soda said. "You really shouldn't be embarrassed."

"I didn't think you _could_ get embarrassed," Darry snarked. "Not much gets to you."

Dad smirked. "Well, this does. She really tore me a new one for lying to her."

"Good," Steve grunted. "You shouldn't've done that."

"I should've narked on you," I said, feeling guilty as hell. "Maybe…"

"Don't," Dad cut in. "Don't start with that 'Maybe' crap, Dallas Mathews. It'll hurt yer head. It's happened, this is happening, and you need to deal with it." He eyed me. "Same way you need to deal with the fact that I want you to take over the fucking bar, and that's _final._ "

He said it like he was telling me that I needed to shape up or get my homework done or that I was grounded. I sat back against the arm of the couch and scowled at him. "And if I don't?"

"Then I'll come back from beyond the grave and haunt your ass, that's what'll happen." Dad sighed. "Dally, you need to get you and Sammy away from there. It can't be healthy for you to still be there when that's where you _met_ her in the first place. I know you like it, but Jesus kid, that's gotta be a helluva reminder."

"Dad – "

"Take it from me, kid," Soda said. "I know what it's like to have your wife leave you, okay? And it _sucks_. And you didn't deserve it. But your dad is right – you need to put as much distance between yourself and that place as you possibly can. Learn from my mistakes."

"Right," Dad grinned. "'Sides – it's my _dying wish._ "

XXXXX

 **AN: Thanks for reading!**


	11. Sodapop and Peanuts

**Author's Note: Hey guys! Sorry this update is a bit late. Next one should be coming faster.**

 **This chapter starts to set up some things, so even if it seems a bit confusing, know it's all going somewhere.**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

 _1966_

 _There are four of them._

 _Look – Darry's plate is full enough. They still ask, but he always gives them a weary sigh and says something like, "Wish I could, but not tonight." Same song, different verse._

 _And Johnny, well, he sticks with Pony usually, even though he dreams of someday being as tuff as ol' Dally._

 _And Pony ain't allowed within twenty miles of Buck Merill's place._

 _Really, Sodapop shouldn't be there either. Nothing good ever comes of being at Buck's, or, at the very least, shit always goes down and the chance of getting busted by the cops goes up about a thousand percent. But Steve is persuasive, and who're we kidding – Soda didn't really need all that much persuading._

 _Steve would be fine if it were just him and Soda, but neither of them are too broken up to see that Dally and Two-Bit are already there when they arrive. Dallas is playing pool in back, and Two-Bit is sitting at the bar, two blondes on either side of him. Kathy is nowhere in sight. Good. No one likes her much._

 _"_ _Who's your friend?" One of the blondes asks Two-Bit when Sodapop sidles up next to them and orders a round of drinks. Two-Bit gives her a tight smile._

 _"_ _Aw, he ain't nobody, baby. Just one'a those Curtis boys."_

 _Two-Bit and Steve both know she's playing dumb. Everyone in Tulsa knows who Sodapop Curtis is. It's the whole girls want him, guys wanna be him sorta situation. Even the socy ones. And those Curtis boys were famous even before their parents died. Darry was a football star and Boy of the Year. Sodapop was the one people stopped in their tracks to stare at he was so damn pretty. And, well…Pony was…well, something would become of him someday._

XXXXX

"Alright. That's it. We need to do somethin'."

Even in his advanced age, Sodapop was restless. You could always count on Soda to be the one to suggest that we do something. When we were kids, it was board games on rainy days and tag on sunny ones. He had the best yard for it, considering that whole horse ranch was basically his backyard. It was pretty obvious that the confines of New York City and all this rain we'd been getting was starting to make him stir-crazy. Where does an old man get all this energy, anyways? You'd think he'd eventually grow out of the chicken-with-his-head-cut-off phase, but I guess not. Guess he was still sorta the same Sodapop Curtis in _The Outsiders –_ the one who couldn't sit through a movie to save his life.

"Like _what?_ " Steve asked. Sodapop was pacing in front of us, all of our eyes ping-ponging back and forth as he went, which was annoying cuz I was trying to watch _King of the Hill_ and he was blocking the TV.

"I dunno. Actually, no. I know what we should do." He paused and smiled. "Since Dallas here is about to become the sole proprietor of the Underground, I think we should have a boy's night out."

I gaped at him, while the rest of them looked at me. Dad looked beyond pleased with himself. Asshole. "I think that sounds like a _great_ idea!" He said. "Sodapop, I don't think you've ever had a better idea than that one. I say we do it."

Sodapop looked pretty damn pleased with himself for coming up with all this. My mother less so.

"I don't think that's the best idea," she grumbled. She'd been helping Sam read a book – ooh, Judy Blume, a firm Mathews Sisters Favorite – but she'd stopped completely to scold Soda. "I know what you boys get up to when you go out and I don't think" – she covered Sam's ears, and he looked positively bewildered, probably because he already knew his grandfather was dying – "that's exactly what a dying man should be spending his final days doing."

"Aw, c'mon, _Bridget_ ," Dad drawled, waving off her concern and completely antagonizing her. She scowled. "What'll it hurt, huh, hon? C'mon, gotta get my kicks in while I can!"

Mom and Dad then engaged in a brief, but intense, stare-off. Not one for the books, exactly. I remember one time when I was ten or so, the two of them stood in the kitchen at the island and didn't break eye contact for – I swear – fifteen minutes. Watched the whole thing staring over the top of the couch. Mary says one time they got into a fight over her, and she was awkwardly caught between them as she stood in the middle of the staircase, Dad at the bottom, Mom at the top, both of them glaring at each other with their hands on their hips and unblinking.

My parents, man. They're kinda weird.

"I think we should go," Pony piped up. Awkward silence? Alleviated. "It'll be…fun?"

Everyone stared at him.

"Alright then," Soda sighed, clapping his hands together. "Pony and Two-Bit are on board. Darry, Steve, how 'bout you guys?"

"I'll go," Steve shrugged, usually game for whatever Sodapop was game for.

"I'm kinda sidin' with Bridget here," Darry said, and Mom looked smug. "Convince me."

"I'm dying, how much more convincing do you need?"

Dad raised his eyebrows at Darry and gave him an expectant look. With the help of the guilt trip, Darry gave in.

Now they were all looking at me.

"It's gonna be yours, kid," Darry said. "It'll be like the passing of the torch."

Sodapop shook his head. "That was gross, Darry."

"How is that gross?"

"Too cheesy. C'mon, man. Two-Bit's dyin'. Ya gotta have somethin' better than _that_."

"Well, guess not –"

I was done listening to this. In the end, I pulled the "Can I ask Tony to come?" card that I've been pulling since we were kids, and that's what made me grudgingly go along in the end.

XXXXX

 _"_ _Where'd Two-Bit go?"_

 _Steve rolled his eyes at his buddy. "Think he disappeared upstairs with those dye-jobs. That, or he's passed out somewhere outside. Either way, I ain't lookin' for him right now."_

 _Soda laughed. "And Dallas?"_

 _"_ _Shit if I know. Last I saw, he was talkin' to Shepard – no surprise there."_

 _"_ _So it's just us then?"_

 _Steve smirked. "You sound disappointed, man. C'mon, you know I'm better company than either of those clowns. Hey, this is good, cuz there's someone I wanted you to meet. Evie's been hangin' around her forever and apparently, she's interested in her?"_

 _Soda snorted. "Who isn't?" He asked, but he didn't sound cocky or vain. He knew it, sure. But it got sorta old. None of those chicks ever really liked him. Just liked him cuz he looked like he could be in the movies._

 _"_ _Naw, man. This one's nice. You should meet her. Name's Sandy. Think you'd like her."_

XXXXX

My Dad didn't name the Underground. It's always been named that, since the guy that owned it before him started it. It was some hippie dive/beat house or something when it got its start. And it's still a dive, for the most part, in a Cheers sorta way. And it's literally underground, like a lot of bars in this city are. When my Dad inherited it in the seventies, I think around the time I was born, he'd already been working there since '74, I believe. The guy knows a lot about liquor.

I guess my mother used to spend more time here, before we were born. My parents really fit the vibe of the place, I guess. I mean, they'd gone to San Francisco in '67, followed the Grateful Dead for a little while, smoked a lot of pot. You should see some of these pictures of them. They're like the parents in _Family Ties,_ but I don't think any of kids are like theirs. Well, I dunno. Maybe Mary, a little bit. Anyways, Mom used to hang around their a lot and screw around on the piano and sing with a bunch of drunks and was probably the most laid-back in her life at that point in time. But then she had Mary, and I guess became a pretty different person. But Dad never left. It was _his_ business, after all, and after Mom stopped working, our only means of income. And Dad never wanted any other job.

The thing about Dad – well, one of the things about Dad – is that he's not exactly the most ambitious guy. Mom? Ambitious as hell. And I think that rubbed off on all us kids – actually, she probably made sure it did. But Dad has always been laid-back, go-with-the-flow, lets the wind take him where it will. He never wanted to go to college, so he never went, but he made sure the three of us did. He never had any grand plans about his future, unless you count him wanting to marry Bee Stevens, which I guess is still a pretty big thing. So one day, he went looking for a job to help support him and my mother, and he stumbled on the thing that would essentially be his career for the next several decades.

Funny, how life works like that. You can plan and plan and plan and map everything out, but usually, Life just decides to throw you into a situation and see how you do – if you sink or swim. And Dad, I guess he's a swimmer cuz this cancer is the first thing I've known of that has crossed his path and won.

"Think of it, kid," Dad said as we walked along. He and I stayed back a bit from the main group. His buddies and mine were all kidding around and talking just ahead of us, but he and I were back here. Dad was walking slower these days, anyway. "In just – shit, a few days, this'll all be yours." He shot me a shit-eating grin. "Imagine that. And just blocks away from your mother, too. She'll like that."

"Yeah," I sighed, "Dad, about all this…"

He held up a hand. "Don't, Dally. I'm doing this for your own good. What, you don't trust me? Look, I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't think you could do it, or if I thought it was a bad idea."

I smirked. "You've had some pretty bad ideas that you thought were _good_ ideas, though. Remember, when you took Mom –"

"We don't speak of that. _Ever_ , Dallas Mathews," he said seriously, then broke into a smile. I laughed. "Trust me on this, Dallas. Seriously, kid. I just want you to be happy, and there's no way in hell you're gonna be happy up there."

"Then I can just transfer to NYU if you're so worried about Mom," I shrugged, but Dad shook his head.

"No. No, you're not gonna do that. This is all a lot more complicated than you think it is. C'mon, now. Let's have a good time, okay?"

My father and his buddies' idea of a "good time" is probably what my idea of a "good time" was when I was twenty. Meaning that they've considered drinkin', smokin', and screwin' women a good time since the sixties, with some pool-playing and poker thrown in there for good measure. And that's what their "good times" were when they got together over the years – minus the screwing women part because, ya know, _because_. And now, they're probably not gonna do much smoking, because, ya know, _Dad._ And Dad might not do too much drinking because, ya know, _cancer._ But everything else is fair game!

"Man, I'd love to work in a bar," Tony said, a lustful smile on his face, if you can lust after a job. I scowled.

"You take it then. Because Dad is dead-set on shoving it off on me."

Speaking of Dad, he'd sidled up behind the bar like he owned the place (because he did) and was chatting with some John that I didn't know the name of. Not one of Dad's regulars. In fact, looking around, I didn't see _any_ of Dad's regulars. Maybe they'd just decided to stop coming. Hm. But maybe that was okay for right now, for no one to be around to ask Dad how he was feeling or some shit, because the first and only time Ponyboy did that, Dad smacked him upside the head and told him to shut up.

"Ya know," Tony began, breaking the shells off of every peanut in the bowl, "It wouldn't be such a bad thing to have you back here. Syracuse is a long ways away, and once this is all over, Mary's gonna have to go back to Washington. And, ya know…I miss having you around, too."

I opened and closed my mouth. I didn't quite know what to say to that. "Tony, I –"

I was cut off by a crash, and I looked over to see Sodapop and Steve laughing over a busted bottle of top shelf whiskey, the neck clutched in Sodapop's hand and Darry and Ponyboy staring at them like they were the biggest dumbasses on the planet, which, ya know, might not exactly be an exaggeration.

"Soda," Dad sighed, "every damn time you step behind this bar, _every damn time_ for the past forty years, you try that shit, and _every damn time_ " – Dad smiles – "you fail. Maybe you should stop tryin' it, yeah?"

Soda snorted. "Shuddup and pour me a drink, Mathews."

And pour him a drink he did. He poured us _all_ drinks.

And when I drink, I get philosophical.

The Underground isn't as dank as its name might suggest. I think my mother might have something to do with that. But the night I was there, it was a bit hazy. Lots of smokin'. Of course. I watched through the haze as my family talked back and forth across the bar, my hearing fuzzy through the din of their voices and laughter and The Allman Brothers' "Ramblin' Man" and other assorted classic rock hits. Someone was sitting and playing at the piano, but it definitely wasn't my mother, whose days of beat house performances were long over. And, ya know, she hadn't come along.

At some point, somebody asked me if I was doing okay, but I can't remember who exactly it was. Maybe Darry. Maybe Dad. Maybe any of them. Could've been a stranger. All I know is that for the moment I was okay, but I wouldn't be soon enough. Because I was watching my Dad have a grand ol' time, but I knew that it was all a façade. It was fake, all of this was _fake_. Not the love those guys had for each other, no. Even grumpy old Steve loved my poor, dying Dad. But the happiness, _that_ was fake.

Who Dad was with them was real.

Who he had been with us was _fake._ Our Dad wasn't Two-Bit Mathews anymore, even though that's still what everyone called him. No. He was somebody else entirely.

Can we ever really know our parents? I mean, mine were totally different people before they had children. Isn't that true about all parents, though? I can never know the crazy-haired young woman in the pale blue dress in the silver picture frame, with her practiced smile and smooth skin, standing next to her distinguished father on the front porch of an old plantation-style home. And I can never know the juvenile delinquent with the wavy, rusty hair and sideburns instead of beard, and as well as I know the goofy grin on his face, I'll never know him as well as his best buddies did – do – or why he'd left his cigarette in his mouth when the picture was taken. I'll never _really_ know my parents. I'll never truly know _their_ families or _their_ friends, no matter how much time I've spent with them over the years. I can only ever know them as the people who brought me into this world, and who they became because of that. There's a picture in one of the front rooms of the five of us. It's sitting on one of the side tables. In it, Mary is eleven, I'm nine, and Lisa is five. I guess that would make Mom thirty-six and Dad thirty-eight. It's one of the few pictures we have of all five of us together. There are _lots_ of pictures of the three of us, or the three of us and Mom, and some of the three of us and Dad. Dad preferred to take pictures, not be in them. I don't know who took this picture, but we're sitting on the front porch steps. Lisa is on Dad's lap, I'm between Mom and Dad, and Mary is next to Mom, leaning on her shoulder. We're all smiling, but us kids are the only ones looking at the camera – Mom and Dad are glancing at each other, sharing a smile that has a meaning that only they could understand. I've looked at that picture a lot. I've always liked it, but I've never really figured out why. I couldn't tell you. But we're all together, and I know that at the very least, I like that part of it. I like that we're together.

There's another picture. I mean, there are lots of pictures. So many pictures. But this one is in my parents' room. Across from their bed is a dresser, and one of the pictures that sits on top of it is one of the old ones. Many pictures in the house are decades old, especially ones of my grandparents, and those are mostly just in black-and-white. But this particular one is a personal favorite of my mother's. It sits between a picture of Dad, Soda, and Steve in full military regalia, sitting around and laughing at the camera like they're at the officer's club, and one of Mom and Aunt Evie with their arms around each other. It's a picture of my father and his buddies at Mom and Dad's wedding. They're young – really young. Dad was the third to get married. Suit jackets off, ties hanging loose around their necks, sitting back on a couch and looking into the camera like they had a personal vendetta against it. The men in that picture were five men who did _not_ want their picture taken. I've had time to study it many times. It was where I always ended up after a bad insulin reaction or particularly bad low day, or any sick day for that matter. And I'd just stare at it. And the more I'd stare at it, the farther away they felt. It was hard for me to believe that I actually knew the men in that picture. The world knew them as other people. Keith Mathews, wasn't he really just Two-Bit Mathews? And Pony and Darry and Sodapop, weren't they just those orphaned brothers? And Steve, wasn't he…didn't he like cars? The people who read Uncle Pony's book only knew them in one very short moment in time. And the same went for me and my sisters. Though our time would be longer, it wasn't the fifty years or so they'd all known each other. I could never know my father as anything other than who he was the moment I was born.

I love history, but if I had a time machine, I wouldn't go back and witness the Battle at Antietam or the signing of the Declaration of Independence or march on Washington with Dr. King. No. No, if I went back to the sixties – if I went back _at all_ – I'd go back and meet them. I'd want to go back and meet Darry, ask him about that football championship he won when he could still remember every detail like it was yesterday. And I'd want to see Sodapop in the rodeo. And I'd ask Pony what he'd want to be when he grows up, knowing full well the good that was going to come to him. And I'd ask Steve how he was so quiet when he lifted hubcaps, and then go see him and Soda in a drag race. I'd want to see my father, would have to do my very best to not look at him like he was some sort of ghost, and ask him to go hit around a bit. And my mother – what was she really like back then? Was she always the hippie that ran off to San Francisco and Woodstock, or was she somebody else entirely for a time? And the rest of them – like Evie and Jackie and Rose and my grandparents and aunt – I'd want to know them to. As they were then.

But I'll never get that chance.

But.

Here's the thing:

As I'm sitting next to Tony in the Underground, drinking beer and cracking the shells off peanuts and eating pretzels, we're watching and listening to Dad as he spins his yarn, pouring drinks for his buddies and occasionally stopping to cough because he's both laughing too hard and dying. Tony and I are laughing just watching him, watching the five of them. It's some sort of miracle that they're all together right now. They're not talking about anything new – there's no new news or anything, especially not for old men – and they're telling all the same stories. About hoods they haven't seen hide nor hair of in decades. About Tim Shepard and his gang. War stories, ya know? Turf and 'Nam.

"Tony."

"Yeah."

"I better know you another forty years. Got it?"

Tony smirked and ducked his head. "You got it, man."

XXXXX

 _So Sodapop met Sandy. S-'n'-S. Sweet and salty. When Sodapop was a kid, he used to like shaking little packets of peanuts into his namesake and have 'em that way – and that's a lot like how his defining relationship was. (Years later, with his daughter and her cousins, he'll show them this neat little trick, and only one of them is actually going to like it, and surprise, it's his daughter.) Sandy and Soda they were a match made in blondie heaven._

 _Yeah, not so much._

 _You know how this story ends._

 _And it doesn't end well._

 _The year 1966 was not a good one. Not for Sodapop Curtis at the very least. Lost his parents. Lost his friends. Lost his girlfriend. It's a story you know well. Any seventh grader in the United States could tell you that Sandy cheated on Sodapop and that she got pregnant, and P.M. Curtis illustrated that point in as few words and as delicately as possible. This was his brother he was talking about, after all._

 _You can say a lot of things about Ponyboy Curtis, but you can't say he lacks decorum._

 _There was one thing about 1966 though that was redeeming for Sodapop, but that one thing has more to do with the Now than it did back then._

 _Sodapop Curtis's wife left him right after their child was born. Never remarried. And he's never going to._

 _But there had always been something about his buddy's wife._

 _There had always been something about Bridget Stevens._

XXXXX

 **AN: Thanks for reading!**


	12. Bedside Manner

**Author's Note: Hey guys! I've officially hit 100 pages with this thing, starting with this chapter. This is getting a lot longer than I expected!**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

This is the part of the story where everything you expected from a story about cancer starts to happen. Look – we're not asking for your pity. None of us are. If you choose to give it, then my father will likely return from beyond the grave and haunt your ass. This is more for us than it is for you. But that's not to say that none of you understand, that none of you don't actually feel for us. You must understand in some capacity. But you likely don't understand my family's propensity to write all of our life stories down. You likely haven't written novels about your friends and family, especially the ones that have been dead for so long you can barely remember their voice or what they looked like or smelled like.

When I went down to Tulsa, though, I learned that even though Ponyboy had written that book under the initials P.M. Curtis, my family has the tendency to bury its past. That's why I never realized until I was twenty-two years old the connection I had to Dallas Winston was more than mere coincidence. Same went for Johnny Curtis and Johnny Cade.

I was about to learn things I didn't want to know about myself. And none of it was my fault.

But I don't blame my family. For hiding what hurts. Hurts so much just thinking about it makes you want to go back to bed. Then again, they didn't have to give their children these names. Because sometimes, the burden is too much to bear.

None of us lives an easy existence, okay? Dallas Winston and Johnny Cade had two of the worst existences I've ever heard of in my life. What happened to them wasn't fair or right or just, even if they were from the wrong sides of the tracks.

So, yeah. This is a story about cancer. And there's blood and tears and a lot of sad shit that's not easy to talk about. But it's also a story about legacy. And I think my father's leaving behind a good one.

XXXXX

 _Entry #1, Part Three_

 _1999_

"Tell me what happened."

"As in exactly what happened, sir?"

"I'd say specifics are appreciated, yes."

Lee and I exchanged a look. The day had started innocently enough. We'd gone riding over at Soda's with Anne and Fran. Had a good lunch right at noon like the southern kids they were. Talked like the cousins we've always been. When we left, Lee had the crazy idea to drive down to the strip. That's where our parents hung out when they were kids. Really, it wasn't that crazy of an idea. Going cruising, that is. What was sorta crazy was when Lee decided to get into a game of chicken with the car next to us (not like I didn't urge him, though), and when we beat them, they didn't take it real well. Long story short, that's how I ended up with the split in my lip and gash in my leg. Eli had to help me get into the car and up the steps to the house, where the pain forced me to collapse on the couch. He was sorta a mess, too, but at least Lee could walk.

"It wasn't our fault, sir," Lee said. He hated calling his old man that. Had ever since he'd gone off to college. Lee had all these ideas, ideas that Uncle Darry's never had. "Just these fuckin' punks. Thought it was funny that ol' Dally here wasn't from around these parts and decided to, uh, 'welcome' him."

Which was bullshit. That 'welcome' was several punch to the guts and a hissed, " _This is how it is in these parts, rich boy."_ And hell, I ain't rich. My old man works like you wouldn't believe.

I don't know what's in the water down here, man. But it's something funky.

Darry patched me up. We sat in the bathroom while Lee hovered in the doorway, after having cleaning himself up. When Aunt Jackie saw us, she'd thrown an absolute fit. "My boys don't fight," she'd said sharply, insinuating that I was one of her boys. That was nice.

" _Ouch_ ," I hissed. Darry looked up at me and scowled as he continued to dab at my leg.

"Won't need stitches. Just needed to get the glass out."

"Thanks," I grumbled, but I did mean it. When he was finished cleaning it out, he started wrapping up my leg.

"You shoulda seen Dally, Dad," Eli said from the hall. "He took those guys on no problem."

"I believe it," Darry said.

"You get in a lot of fights, Dally?"

Darry stiffened, but he never stopped wrapping my leg. I shook my head. "Nah," I breathed. I was feeling a little woozy. I

"Dallas, I think it's about time you called your father."

XXXXX

"Hey. Dad. It's me," I sighed.

"Oh. Oh! Hey, kiddo. What's up?"

"Not much. Just calling. Is everything okay up there?"

Dad laughed. "Yeah we're all fine..."-the wire tangled-"Lis, what're you doing? What? Well, cut it out. I'm tryin' to talk to your brother."

"What's she doing?" I asked, feeling myself smile. Dad laughed.

"Ah, nothin'. Just being the annoying twerp she is." I heard a sharp 'hey!' in protest. Dad ignored her. "Anyways, ya need somethin'? Is everything okay, Dallas?"

My heart ached with the familiar feeling of homesickness. I wanted to be in one place, but needed to be in the other. Which was which, I don't know. "Naw, I don't need anything," I said. "Just wanted to say 'hey.'"

"Well, I think you've covered that. Anyone else ya need to talk to?"

Yes. "Mom. Is Mom there?"

Dad didn't say anything for a second. All I could hear was the TV in the background. "Yeah, kiddo, she's here. I'll grab 'er."

"Okay."

"Okay. I'll see ya soon, right?"

Dad didn't normally ask for much, but right then I could tell he kinda wanted me back home. Well, I wasn't ready yet, but it stung just the same.

"Yeah," I said. "Promise."

"Good deal, Dal. Your mama's here. Talk to ya later."

"Dallas?"

My stomach flipped at the sound of her voice. It was soft and questioning, like she was either hurting or was rearing to rip me a new one. Maybe both. I was such an ass for hurting her like this. I didn't think. None of us kids have ever really given much thought to what Mom puts up with, but it's real obvious when it surfaces. Now, she sounds broken. I should've called. I don't know where I should be anymore. "Hey, mama," I whispered.

" _Je_ sus, Dallas," she bit out. "Are you alright? When you didn't show up the other day…my _god_ , you had us all scared to _death_. What were you thinking? And what's so important that you have to go all the way down there to find it, huh? You could ask us –"

"But you never answer," I said simply, shyly, fearing she'd reach through the phone to smack me upside the head. "Mom, just…some stuff has happened to me recently, and…well, what I need to know you won't tell me."

The line went dead silent for a few moments, and I thought for sure she'd hung up on me.

"Mom?"

"That's not true, Dallas," she said icily. Mom could be real cold when she wanted to be.

So cold, even, that I sometimes wonder how Dad could even begin to love her.

(But to be fair, Dad is sometimes _so much_ , I wonder how Mom could even begin to love him.)

(Is that a normal thing to think about? Should a guy be thinking about these things? I don't know.)

"Dallas," she continued, "running away from your problems never solves anything. That's just a fact."

She said it like she knew from experience.

"I'm not running away, Mom."

"Yes you are. I love you, Dallas."

I shrunk back from the phone for a moment. "I, uh, I love you –"

"I love you," she went on, "but sometimes, you can be a real tool."

And she hung up on me.

XXXXX

"How'd it go?"

"Fine." Short, clipped. Darry looked up from his paperwork and frowned. "Where's Lee?"

Darry sighed. "'Out'," he said, using the air quotes.

I sat down at the table a few seats down from him. "Uncle Darry?"

"Yeah, kid."

I took a deep breath. "Darry, why'd you look so upset when Lee asked me if I get in a lot of fights?"

Darry stared at me. I stared right back. I was starting to get a few ideas of what might be going on here.

"Dallas. You don't wanna know that."

Actually, I did. "Does it have to do with Dallas Winston?" I asked, and when he stiffened again, I knew I was onto something. "Uncle Pony's book says he used to get into a lot of fights when he was alive," I continued when he said nothing.

"He did," he said easily. "But that doesn't have anything to do with anything."

"He killed himself," I said softly. "I read that book, Darry. I know what happened to you guys. And I know what happened to my friend when she died."

Darry shook his head. "No you don't."

"I ain't talkin' 'bout the afterlife," I said. "I mean I know that the second she died, people started to forget her. Can you remember much about Dallas, Uncle Darry?"

He thought about it for a moment. "Not really, no."

"But he's who I'm named after. Isn't he?"

Darry finally stepped fully away from his paperwork and sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest and staring at me. Not mad. But concerned.

"Dallas," he began. "I know that you're lookin' for answers down here. For some sort of larger meaning or somethin'. But, kiddo, lemme tell you what I've learned after going around the block a few times: there ain't one. There ain't no rhyme or reason to any of this. Life's a crapshoot, kid. So yeah – you're named after a hood. There. But that don't mean anything about you. It don't. It's just a name, kid."

But it wasn't just a name. It was so much more than just a name. There was a _reason_ my parents gave me his name, and I intended to find out. So I abruptly stood up and headed for the front door. It was still early – library might still be open.

"Where you goin'?" Darry demanded.

"Gramma's," I shrugged.

I didn't go back to Gramma's.

XXXXX

"…I told you going out last night was a bad idea. I _told you_! And what do y'all go and do? You fucking go out anyway!"

Mom had stormed into the living room in a flurry of anger and wild hair, her baby pink robe billowing behind her as she walked, then settling around her gracefully like she was Princess Grace or something when she came to an abrupt halt. All the air got sucked out of the room, and the TV was suddenly too loud, as well as the birds outside the window and the coffee we could hear percolating in the kitchen. When she wanted to, Mom really knew how to make an entrance. Lisa shot me a nervous look, and Mary was awkwardly avoiding eye contact with any of us.

"Mom, listen –" I began, but she cut me off with a hand.

"Where are your father's friends?" She demanded. "Fucking _Sodapop_ and his stupid fucking ideas…"

Mom trailed off and put a hand to her mouth. She never swore like that. Like, ever. In the quiet, I was able to observe that the hair she had piled on top of her head was falling out in several places, that there was dried blood underneath her fingernails and on her fingertips and on her robe and…Jesus, that was a lot of blood. When Lincoln was assassinated, one of the actresses who'd been on stage at the time of his shooting went up to his booth, and some of his blood got on her dress. After his death, she'd put the dress on at parties and show people (our ancestors were especially maudlin people.) And Jackie, after JFK died, she left that pink suit on. So they could see what they did to her husband. While my father isn't exactly as important as the President of the United States, that was the only comparison I could make in that moment. The blood on her hands must've been from cleaning him up. Maybe. And the blood on her dressing gown had already dried. I hoped she knew how to remove that bloodstain from that sort of material. She'd been wearing that dressing gown for as long as I could remember. She loved pink, especially that light shade, the shade that Mary and Lisa must've been wrapped in when she and Dad brought them home. It would be a shame if she had to get rid of it.

"Dallas," Mom began, zeroing in on me. I shrunk back a bit. "What exactly did your father do last night?"

I grimaced. "I, uh, can't exactly say, exactly. Ma'am," I added as an afterthought because damn, did she look pissed. I think she was shaking a bit. "Like…was he _drinking_ , or…"

"The air in that place is blue," Lisa piped in. "I mean, it probably wasn't the best place for him, but…ya know…last wishes, and all." Lisa gave a tiny shrug, and Mom narrowed her eyes at her.

"Well, Lisa May, it really might've been his last wish. See my hands?" She held them up. "Hm? See 'em? I've seen your father in a bad way before, but like _this?_ Choking on his own blood? Barely able to breathe? _Whole_ new ballgame. I thought he was done for. So Mary, get yourself together and come upstairs with me. I'm calling in the doctor, and I need you to stay with your father."

Lisa and I glanced at each other again as the two of them left. She sighed. I sighed.

This was not good.

The doctor was a man about my father's and his friends' age. He wasn't dressed like a doctor in a hospital. He was wearing a sweater and slacks and had wire-rimmed glasses on and grey hair. I didn't even know doctors made house calls anymore. Must be a perk of dying – everything comes straight to you. Lisa and I greeted him at the door. He still had his umbrella up even though he was under the awning of the porch. I gave him a tight smile.

"Thanks for comin', Doc."

"Where is he?" He asked, disregarding me and instead looking straight at Lisa. Lightning flashed behind him. It was one of those dark, dark, rainy days that feels like the night never ended and was bleeding into day. Rolling thunder, lightning, the works. I scowled at him, but he didn't seem to notice me. Lisa turned and pointed upstairs.

"Come with me," she said easily. I watched the two of them head up, and then saw Soda and Pony watching from beside the staircase. I hadn't heard them sneak in.

"Hey," I said. Pony waved absently to me as he seemed to be listening in to the direction of their footsteps, his head nodding slightly as he turned on his heels to follow their direction.

"Hey," Soda said back to me, giving me a calm smile. "Who's that?"

I shrugged. "Dad's doctor, I guess. I don't even know his name. He seems to know Lisa, though."

"What's he doin' here?"

I grimaced. "Dad's…pretty bad, I guess. Mom came downstairs real mad before you guys were up. She thinks somethin' happened last night cuz he woke up coughing up blood. Got it all over her."

Pony snapped to attention, and both of the brothers turned a bit pale, pulling faces that were a cross between disgust and concern. "Jesus," Soda mumbled, barely moving his mouth. "Sorry to hear that, kid."

I shrugged again. "I'm sorry, too," I sighed. "They're all up there with him now."

"Why aren't _you?"_ Pony asked pointedly.

Fair question. Why wasn't I up there?

I didn't know.

"I don't know," I said, feeling small. One time, on one of our visits to Chicago to see Ponyboy and his family, Johnny and I, wild and young and stupid, had decided it'd be pretty funny to lock Mikey and Lisa together in a closet, just to freak 'em out. It was funny for a few minutes, until Pony found us and asked us why exactly we were standing in front of the closet like that, and why he was hearing screaming. We fessed up quick, and Lisa and Mikey went running to him, crying and wrapping their arms around his legs because I guess in their little kid heads, they must've thought they were gonna die or something. And when Pony asked why we'd done it, Johnny and I just looked at each other and I said "I don't know" in that same small voice.

All of this was just making me feel so little.

"Dal," he began, coming a step closer, "it's okay to be scared of all this. You know that, right?" I nodded. "But you can't avoid it."

Hell yeah, I could.

"Hey, Sammy – wanna go to the museum?"

XXXXX

Museum days were popular with me and Sam. Dad had never been much for them when I was growing up, but on rainy days, it was a top choice of Mom when she needed to find something to keep us kids entertained. And Mom's a smart lady, she likes museums and art and going to society events and benefits and stuff like that. She can sit still, is the thing. And she can keep her mouth shut, too. Dad really struggles with that one.

"I wanna see the mummies," Sam said, tugging at my hand as we walked in. I looked down at him, so small in this throng of people. Seems every person in New York City had the same idea to come to the American Museum of Natural History today. So much for originality.

"We can do that," I said.

When I came home from Tulsa in '99, and after I recovered from my time in the hospital there, I came here. I know – I'm lame. But I mean, I really do like history. There was this exhibit at the time that was all about time capsules, and there was one for New York. I love the idea of time capsules. That you put things in, bury it for a while, and the people of the future will get some little idea of what you all were way back when. What you liked to do and who everyone was fascinated with and what was going on in the world and what you wore. And everyone saw it would point and gasp and smile and say things like 'Is that _really_ how they dressed?' and 'I can't imagine living without _xyz_ ' and 'I think I've read something about this…'

Museums are really just time capsules. I mean, there is, of course, practical use for keeping all this old junk around. As a historian, I know how important it all is, its worth. And it's worth more than just figuring out how the Egyptians buried their dead or the importance of what Teddy Roosevelt did for the preservation of our nation's natural resources. That's all a very practical way of looking at it. But museums are also a place to go to remind us of who we were, that _yes,_ we really _did_ wear that. That everyone before us was just as human as we are right now, as we live and breathe. And that one day, all of us, as we are right now, as we live and breathe, want to be remembered just like all of them did.

"Dad, did'ya know that they pulled their brains out their nose?"

"They did, did they?"

"Uh-huh. And their other organs."

"That's pretty interesting, ain't it?"

"Yeah! And they put 'em all in jars that look like animals. See?"

Sammy pointed to a collection of – yep – jars, once containing the entrails of some upper-class Egyptian that was nameless to the rest of us. These people thought they were gods on Earth, yet we don't know their names or much else about them other than when they died, they got their brains shoved in a jar.

Some legacy.

XXXXX

My parents loved the joke about dying a New York death. Where you die and nobody finds you for a few days. Usually you're living alone in an apartment and nobody cares enough for you to go looking for you once they've noticed you've been gone a few days – or they didn't notice at all. Or maybe you have a cat and it's been eating your face off for the past few days until your neighbors can't bear the smell anymore and decide to investigate only to find, well, a cat eating your face off. But who can really blame the cat, right? It's just trying to survive, and without its owner to feed it, well…well, what's it s'posed to do, huh?

I don't remember what movie or TV show or book that joke is from. Probably something by Woody Allen. But they tossed the term "New York Death" around all the time like it was some sort of rite of passage they got to look forward to. That the city around them would be too busy to notice they were gone because it never sleeps and it never cares.

Lovely.

When Sammy and I got home from the museum, I half expected to return to find my father dead. And I half expected for there to be a river of blood coming from his room. And if I could have another half, it would probably be expecting for my mother to rush up to me immediately and ask me to come help as she rest bloodied hands on my shoulders.

None of those things happened.

What _did_ happen was we walked in the door, said we were home, walked back to the kitchen so I could make Sam a sandwich and get him a glass of milk. Once I settled him with that, I found everyone except my father in the basement, laughing.

"…and my _god_ , you should've seen his face when he pulled out that-that – Mary, what was that?"

Mary was sitting between Uncle Darry and Uncle Steve on the couch, mug in hand. "The cannula?"

"Yes," Mom said, pointing to her. "That. The thing that's hooked up to the oxygen." Mom had turned her attention back to everyone else. "When Two-Bit saw that, I thought he was going to – oh, Dallas, honey! You're home!"

She came over and hugged me, and I gave her a distracted kiss on the cheek. "What the hell happened while we were gone?" I asked, and everyone exchanged all these little looks.

"Not much," Pony deadpanned. "Just learned that Two-Bit is apparently a fascinating medical specimen and that he can't breathe on his own anymore."

Mom stepped back and gave me a sad smile when he said that.

"He can't?" I asked softly, raising my eyebrows. Mom shook her head.

"No," she said gently. "But goodness, this man was a _riot._ "

"Was he ever!" Soda agreed. "What was that word he kept repeating to himself? _Fascinating_ , that's it. The entire time he looked over your old man, he kept saying _fascinating._ Like he was on display or somethin'."

Steve scoffed. "He _was_ , the way we were all starin' in at him. For once, thank god for his good humor, otherwise he'd prolly bitch at us." Lisa nodded in silent agreement.

"But, he can't breathe anymore on his own?" I asked again, more urgently this time. "He's hooked up to oxygen now? Which means that, without it, he'd die."

"Well, that's one way it could happen," Mary said gently. "Dally, it's gonna happen no matter what. This is…if anything, this is just prolonging it all."

Funny, how they were laughing before I got here, but it seems I'm an expert at bringing down a room.

XXXXX

 **AN: Yes, the museum they go to is the one from** ** _Night at the Museum_** **. I know, I know.**

 **Sorry if descriptions got a bit graphic there. It was hard to write, too.**

 **Thanks for reading! And to my American readers, Happy Thanksgiving!**


	13. Our Little Secret

**Author's Note: Hey guys! Next chap.** ** _Long_** **chap. Nothing really to say here except maybe…gratuitous** ** _Simpsons_** **references? A couple direct quotes from** ** _The Outsiders_** **. Yeah, that's about it.**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

 _Entry #12_

 _1991_

 _Mary Mathews did not want to go to Tulsa for Thanksgiving._

 _And that had nothing to do with Tulsa itself. No, at the moment, Mary wanted absolutely nothing to do with her family. Any of them. At all. She didn't want to see Aunt Evie or Uncle Pony or any of her annoying kid cousins. She didn't want to hear her mother complaining to Aunt Rose about how her skirts were too short, or overhear her father bemoan about her behavior to Uncle Soda. The only person she could maybe stand seeing at the moment was Uncle Steve and Aunt Evie's daughter Annette, and only because the last time Mary had been in Tulsa, they'd snuck out and gotten their noses pierced together. Annette got it. She understood where Mary was at. Their parents had blown a gasket when they'd seen what they'd done to their precious bodies. Mary didn't get it – her mother and father had followed the Grateful Dead, gone to San Francisco during the Summer of Love. Her father wore his hair long and grew a beard. Her mother had gone to Woodstock. They were still hippies at heart – why should they care about one little nose ring?_

 _All of it was just so annoying._

 _You know what else was annoying?_

 _Mary's brother Dallas and sister Lisa. Dallas was fourteen and couldn't shut up to save his life. Good thing Dad couldn't either – or, really, that was a horrible thing. Because now the car was filled with the sound of them gabbing on and on. Good thing they were just driving from the airport – if Mom had relented and let Dad drive the family down to Tulsa, Mary probably would've ended it all somewhere around St. Louis. And Lisa? Lisa was ten. She was ten and the baby of the family and she got whatever she fucking wanted and she bitched and moaned when she didn't._

 _It's been ten years, and sometimes Mary still wonders why her parents had to go and screw things up by having another kid._

 _Lisa looked a lot like Dad's little sister. Sadie was nine years younger than her older brother, and he'd absolutely doted on her. In a way, he'd raised her. He was the only male figure in her life. Lisa had been born strawberry blonde and grey-eyed and looked just like their aunt in pictures. Lisa and Dallas both favored Dad's side, while Mary looked like her mother, though Lisa seems to have gotten their mother's dainty, upturned nose. Mary found herself constantly comparing herself to Bridget. Mom was beautiful, dignified, something Mary never believed she would be. And Dad didn't understand her like he understood the rest of the family. He saw his sister in his youngest daughter, saw himself in his son, and had fallen in love with a woman that was the living opposite of him. And their oldest daughter didn't fit into any of those pictures._

 _Mary definitely confused him._

 _"_ _Are we there yet?" Lisa asked._

 _"_ _Yeah, are we there yet?" Dallas parroted, knowing_ exactly _who they sounded like. And knowing it would piss Dad off._

 _"_ _Nope!" Dad said cheerfully. "And if you ask me one more time, I'll come back there and whoop your asses."_

 _"_ _Keith," Mom sighed, only having to say his name to convey so much more. A gentle warning, even though she knew he didn't mean it and would never lay a hand on his children._

 _"_ _You're right, you're right," he placated. He glanced over at her. "I'm driving. Can't take my eyes off the road – I'll send_ you _back there and have you do it for me."_

 _Mom just shook her head. Dallas started snickering, which made Lisa laugh, too, because god knows Mom and Dad's banter is just the funniest thing on the goddamn planet. (That was definitely sarcasm.) Mary just crossed her arms and tried to sink further back into her seat, if that was even possible._

 _She couldn't believe this was her family. Her brother was the most annoying person on the planet. All he talked about was baseball and history class and goofed around with Dad. Dallas also got a lot of Mom and Dad's attention because he was sick (but it was diabetes, so c'mon, he could handle it. Right?) and would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night so low he thought he would die, or be puking his guts up because he ate the wrong thing and got all out of wack, or get sidelined by a cold. Mom worried over him. Dad loved that his only son took after him so much._

 _Lisa was another story. She was ten, and always getting into shit. Always had a million questions. She practically lived in tutus. She took well to Mom's classical music training. And she was funny and good with people like Dallas and Dad were and cute in a way Mary hadn't been in years. But Mary didn't want to be cute anyways. Lisa could love pink and ballet all she wanted, but Mary couldn't be bothered, not anymore. And Lisa acted like such a baby – so that's how Mary treated her. Lisa was so nosy, and it bugged Mary to no end. With six years between them, it didn't really feel as if they really had a true sister relationship, like Martha and Joan did._

 _Mom and Dad were a totally different issue. They were total squares. They never let Mary get away with anything, never let her do anything. Hated every boy she brought home. Hated all the clothes she wore. Hated (almost) all the music she was into. Didn't care that at least she was still doing well in school and helped around the house and was still a fairly involved person. No, that didn't matter. What mattered was that her mother "would NEVER be caught out in public dressed like THAT", or that her father thought Sonic Youth was shit. With her hair, she was literally the black sheep of the family. Dallas was the people-pleasing, diabetic, prodigal son of baseball. Lisa was the little girl with ringlets and a baby pink bedroom and lived up to every stereotype of the proverbial Daddy's Little Princess stereotype._

 _Mary wanted the fuck out._

 _"_ _You've been quiet," Mom observed. This year, they were staying with her parents, which Dad was less than enthusiastic about. Mom handed Mary her suitcase. "Is something wrong?"_

 _Mary wanted to melt for a moment. Her mother's voice was so genuine, and Mary really felt like she cared. But then she remembered that she hated everyone and re-hardened. "No," she said simply. "I'm fine."_

 _Grandma and Grandpa Stevens were class-acts. Upper class-acts, specifically. Mom had made double-sure that her children dressed decently when they saw them. Lisa was easy enough – Mom just threw a dress at her. Dallas would gripe some, but he would eventually comment that he looked good in the khakis and sweater, and Dad would roll his eyes. Mary was a bit more difficult because almost everything she owned was purposely torn or too short. But she could still keep the grunge look in the plaid skirt she was wearing, so Grandma and Grandpa were satisfied, which meant they didn't make any remarks._

 _"_ _When I was younger, I called my grandparents 'Grandmother' and 'Grandfather', you know," Mom say. "They're not quite as stuffy as that. This could be a helluva lot more awkward. They love you. Show them some respect, at least."_

 _Dad didn't like going to visit his in-laws. He didn't dislike them, exactly, but his father-in-law hadn't exactly given him his blessing to marry his daughter. And as much as Dr. Stevens loved his grandchildren, he hadn't been too happy about the fact that his Bridget had been five months pregnant at the altar. Time had washed most of that away, but there was usually one or two awkward moments that Dad would walk right into. Dad may have had wit on his side same as Dr. Stevens, but he's the one who married into this family, and Dad hadn't come from money or status and was really a nobody when he met Mom. Or, not a nobody – Mom was the real nobody, the new girl in town. Two-Bit Mathews was well-known in Tulsa, that was indisputable. People knew a lot about him._

 _So a lot of people knew that the Okie had married into a New York family that had money and prestige back east. That he had followed his fiancé to the Big Apple. That he'd left all of Tulsa behind._

 _"_ _Let me look at you," Grandma said, admiring her grandchildren. Technically, their mother was her step-daughter, making these her step-grandchildren, but Bridget had never known any other mother, and Viviane was a nice woman who made really good pineapple upside-down cake._

 _This year, Mom and Dad had convinced the grandparents to have the whole crew over to their house for Thanksgiving – it was the biggest, after all, of any of them – and they'd reluctantly agreed to having twenty-one people over to their house for the big day. It was quite the undertaking, but Mom and Viviane had stepped up to the challenge, and almost the second the family arrived, the two women were in the kitchen. Dad seemed to like the idea of getting through the weekend by watching TV and drinking, at least until his buddies got there. Dallas talked to his grandfather about history and baseball._

 _Mary was stuck babysitting Lisa._

 _Lisa was a bore to the then-sixteen Mary. Barbies? No. Coloring? No. Tag? Hop-Scotch? Board games? No, no, no. Of course, Lisa bitched. She bitched to Mom and she bitched to Dad, and both gave Mary reproachful looks and told her to get along with her sister or she'd be forced to help in the kitchen._

 _"_ _I'd love that!" Mary said enthusiastically. "I'd much rather do that than play Life for the millionth time."_

 _Mom arched a perfect brow. "Nice try. Go be nice to your sister."_

 _Dad said the same thing. "Go be nice to your sister." He'd caught her in the hallway and gave her a lecture to go with it, though, which went in one ear and out the other while Mary gave him a vacant stare and nodded robotically. Dad was too on-edge to care though._

 _The girls always shared a room when they went to their grandparents'. And they always shared Mom's old room. And they had to share the bed, which Mary hated. Mary had started wearing only giant T-shirts to bed, while Lisa still wore little white nightgowns. Which, they were really the same thing. Night and day, those two. Black and white, even what they were wearing. Dad had dumped a tired Lisa into bed next to Mary, and then ran his hand through Mary's curls – a goodnight. And Mary tried to sleep, but she could only stare at the ceiling, feeling Lisa squirm next to her, and think about how she couldn't believe she was back in Tulsa. How all she really wanted was to be home. And how all she wanted…_

 _Was for Lisa to stop kicking her._

 _"_ _Lisa!" She hissed. "Cut it out!"_

 _Lisa hummed sleepily. "Mmm. Sorry."_

 _"_ _No you're not," Mary grumbled._

 _"_ _Huh?"_

 _"_ _Nothing."_

 _"_ _Mary?"_

 _"_ _What."_

 _"_ _Do you not want to be here?"_

 _Mary sighed through her nose. "I don't know," she sorta lied. "It'll be cool to see Annie."_

 _"_ _Yeah. And Joan."_

 _"_ _Yeah," Mary sighed._

 _"_ _But you like Thanksgiving," Lisa went on. "You should be happy."_

 _"_ _Should be," Mary snarked. "Look, I'm fine. Drop it."_

 _"_ _I don't think you're fine," Lisa said. "I think you're mad."_

 _"_ _Maybe I am. So?"_

 _"_ _I don't want you to be mad."_

 _Mary looked at her baby sister. "You don't?"_

 _Lisa shook her head against the pillow. "No. Why should I?"_

 _"_ _That's not what I meant," Mary said quickly. "I just…I don't know."_

 _"_ _That's okay." Lisa wriggled next to Mary, and Mary bit back an annoyed sigh. "Mary?" Lisa whispered into the dark._

 _"_ _What?" Mary snapped._

 _"_ _Is there gonna be a new Simpsons tomorrow?"_

 _Mary shook her head against the pillow. "Not tomorrow. Next week. Tomorrow they're showing football."_

 _The Simpsons was pretty much one of the only shows that Lisa watched growing up. That, and some MTV and the Saturday morning cartoons. She was a lot more sheltered than her siblings had been. Lisa had been planned for. Mary remembers her parents (her mother) reading baby books and picking out names and babyproofing the house. Mom made Dad take a labor class with her because he'd never been allowed in the delivery room before – but times had changed. And Lisa was a perfect baby. She wasn't completely unexpected like Mary was, forcing their parents to marry as quickly as possible. And she wasn't born early like Dallas was, who had also given their mother a miserable eight months when she carried him. In short, Lisa didn't get exposed early on to quite as much as her brother and sister. But she watched The Simpsons with the rest of the family, even if George Bush detested it. Dad thought it was a riot. It made Mom smile, especially at the sweeter moments. Dallas took to Bart's "Underachiever and proud of it" attitude like a fish to water. And Mary…well, Mary just liked it. Nothing much else to it._

 _They were a busy family. Dad had to work a lot. But they could count on Thursday nights. The show was only into its third season, but they'd been hooked ever since Christmas of '89. It was just about the only thing everyone could agree on. So for there not to be one on tomorrow probably threw Lisa off._

 _"_ _Oh," Lisa sighed, and Mary almost smiled at how she was trying not to sound disappointed. "I like Lisa. I like the one where she gets the pony."_

 _"_ _I like the one where she writes the essay and she gets to go to Washington."_

 _Lisa's eyes grew big. "Yeah! That one's good. And I like the one where she makes the centerpiece for Thanksgiving and Bart ruins it."_

 _"_ _I like that one, too. And the one with Bleeding Gums Murphy in it is really good. I think that one made Mom cry," Mary said, snickering a little, and Lisa giggled back._

 _Lisa seemed to think for a while. "I wanna be like her," she said reverently. "She's smart."_

 _"_ _You're smart," Mary said. "You're already like her."_

 _"_ _Mom is like Marge," Lisa went on. "They're both good moms."_

 _"_ _Yeah," Mary agreed softly. "They are."_

 _Just then, Dallas decided to burst into the room. Dallas was good at making entrances, a gift probably inherited from their father, like most of Dallas's gifts. (Sometimes, it was like Dallas was TRYING to just…become a mini version of their father.) He came into the room without turning any lights on and flopped between his sisters on the bed._

 _"_ _I have just returned from the brink of death," he announced. "Again! There I was, lying in bed, when I notice that I'm – what else? – lower than the morale of the German soldiers as the Soviets closed in on Berlin. Lucky I'm a light sleeper, or I don't think I'd be telling you this story now. So I'm lying in bed there, sucking down Kool-Aid like my life depends on it…well, that's a bad analogy because my life really did depend on it, but you know what I mean. Anyways, I'm sitting there, drinking my Kool-Aid, and it occurs to me that today – yes, it's past midnight – is Thanksgiving. And you know what that means? That means our entire family is gonna descend upon this house in roughly twelve short hours. That means that in roughly fifteen to sixteen hours, we're gonna be eating Thanksgiving dinner!" He grinned at both his sisters. "Thought I'd come in and share that with y'all."_

 _Mary glared at her brother. "You mean you came in here just to tell us that we're gonna be having Thanksgiving dinner today?"_

 _"_ _Yes'm. That, and the fact that I'm not feeling so great and I kinda wanted to be around somebody in case I, ya know, pass out or something."_

 _Lisa giggled. "I think it's funny. Dally, did you really almost die?"_

 _Dally puffed up his chest. "Damn straight! But I'm good, Lis."_

 _"_ _If you feel so bad, why don't you go bug Mom and Dad?" Mary asked, annoyed that Dally had interrupted her and Lisa's conversation. For once in her life, Mary had felt that they were starting to talk like sisters. Like people who understood each other. Dallas shrugged._

 _"_ _I dunno. It kinda makes me feel like a pussy whenever I go crying to them." He smirked and nudged Mary's side. "'Sides – Dad says I'm not allowed to sleep in their bed anymore. Nipped that in the bud when I turned thirteen."_

 _Mary rolled her eyes and gave her brother a good shove. "Yeah, right."_

 _"_ _Well, the part about feeling like a pussy is true," Dallas admitted. "But you're right. I got kicked out when I turned fourteen." Mary just kicked him. "Ow! Fine, fine. Look, I just don't wanna bug 'em all the time, okay? I mean, I give them enough grief as it is. And they're gonna be real busy today – I didn't want them worrying about me. Remember last month when I didn't go to school for a week? And I almost went to the hospital? I think Mom almost had a nervous breakdown."_

 _"_ _What's that?" Lisa asked quietly._

 _"_ _Like, a freak-out," Dallas explained. "Look, guys, quit worrying. I'm fine, it's fine, we're good. 'Kay? So can I stay in here with y'all or not?"_

 _Mary and Lisa conferred silently. But the decision was ultimately yes._

 _Dallas, got kicked onto the floor, though._

XXXXX

My cramping hand finished writing Mary's story. It was the longest yet, besides mine. Mary definitely had a lot to say. I let out a sigh as I finished and quickly scanned over it. My handwriting definitely needed some improvement. Or maybe it just looked bad because I was going so quickly. I smirked at my sister.

"I don't remember that," I told her. "I'm surprised you do."

Mary shrugged. She looked relaxed as she sat at the kitchen table, with her arms crossed over her chest and crossed legs. Mary almost never looked relaxed. But things had been calm the past couple days. There was definitely a pall setting in. Dad hadn't been out of his room since he'd spewed blood all over Mom. I don't think he could. And even if he was able to get out of bed, I'm not so sure he'd want to. Mary had told me that he'd told her he didn't want everyone to see him like this. But that wasn't gonna stop us. I knew for a fact that it wasn't gonna stop his buddies, either. They'd all been chomping at the bit to see him, but Mom had insisted he have a little space. Ya know, it's rare that Two-Bit Mathews doesn't like being the center of attention. Very rare. And now he didn't want to see _anybody_. He didn't want any attention _at all_.

"It's a good memory. That last bit, at least," she said simply; softly. She chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip. I closed my notebook and flexed my fingers. "It's pretty special, what you're doing with Dad."

I smiled. "Guess it is. Thanks for your help, by the way. I know it ain't always easy for you to talk about your relationship with him."

Mary raised an eyebrow, real cool. "And it's easy for you?"

I shrugged. "Well, yeah. I mean…I didn't mean anything bad by that, Mare," I tried to explain. "I just…well, even you've admitted that the two of you haven't always gotten along…"

"You think I don't know that?" Mary bit out, expression still cool. "I'm well aware of our relationship, Dallas. What it was then, what it is now."

I squirmed a bit in my seat. "What is it…now?" I asked tentatively.

Mary's turn to squirm. She was always so careful with her words. She never wanted anyone to get what she was saying confused. Mary was precise, and you always knew _exactly_ what she was thinking. I mean, when she was a teenager, she mostly spoke in sighs, grunts, and "whatevers", but a lot of kids do that. But my sister is a smart woman, and she's going to tell it to you like it is.

She began very carefully. "I love Dad," she said gently. "But we're never going to see eye-to-eye. Not the way you and Lisa do with him."

"Ya know, Mom doesn't always see eye-to-eye with him, either."

Mary sadly smiled. "Yeah. But he _picked_ her. He fell in love with her. I…I'm just the way I am. He didn't pick me."

"He stayed," I tried, trying to keep all bitterness from my voice. There would always be an anger, just bubbling beneath the surface, about all the hurt that's been brought down on this family by being left behind. "And he's always tried with you, he _has_."

Instantly, something in Mary darkened. Her eyes were hunks of cold, dead emerald and she was now leaning forward onto the table. "And I haven't?"

I was realizing pretty quickly that this conversation was going nowhere pretty fast. Mary digs her heels into the ground and she doesn't budge.

"And this little _project_ you're doing with him," she continued, "he asked _you_ to do it. And yeah, I know, Dr. Mathews the history prof, _I know_. We _all_ know. Mom and Dad were so proud of you when you got your doctorate – "

"Jesus, Mary, they're proud of you, too, don't pull this bullshit with me –"

" – Dad asked me why I became a nurse and didn't get _mine_ – "

"It's just a question!"

"You still don't get it! They think you're _perfect!"_

She said "perfect" with such venom and conviction that I actually shrunk away from her. Yes, Mary is older than me, and made sure I knew it, but it wasn't by much – not even a full two years. And I get that she was trying to scare me into agreeing with her. However, I'm a grown-ass man now, and I wasn't about to stand for that bullshit.

"Are you _jealous?_ " I asked, incredulous.

"Yes!" Mary shouted. "I am! And so is Lisa, for that matter." She shook her head. "But that doesn't matter. Dad's always liked you and Lisa better than me. He _gets_ you. I mean, Lisa looks just like his sister, and _you…_ " She trailed off, still shaking her head. She was starting to cry. "You're his favorite _and you know it_. He doesn't get me, he doesn't understand me, he doesn't like me or my husband or almost any of the choices I've made and…and…and the only reason he's putting up with me _now_ is because I'm one of only two people who know how to keep him from choking on his own blood! So fuck you, Dallas, fuck _both_ of you."

Mary was in absolute hysterics by this point, and she slowly sank to the floor, crying with her knees pulled up to her chest. I didn't know what to say or do besides sit there and stare at her with my mouth hanging open like an idiot.

"What in the hell is going on in here?"

Mary didn't look up, just kept on crying, but I did, and I saw our mother standing in the archway to the kitchen looking absolutely appalled at the scene before her. Lisa was hovering behind her, and –

And that was Dad hanging on to Pony's arm, _Jesus fuck_.

(They didn't look happy either.)

"Dallas, why is your sister on the ground?" Mom asked, sounding both concerned and inconvenienced at the whole situation before she had even heard the story. But that wasn't uncommon. When we were little – maybe ten and eight – I pinched Mary so hard she bled, and of course, _I_ was the one who caught all the heat, even though Mary had taken half of my sandwich and was totally asking for it. But Mom hadn't cared – if someone was bleeding, the bleeder immediately took precedent. Think I spent about half an hour with my nose in the corner for that one.

"I-I-I, uh, uh, um…Mom, I didn't do anything!"

She shot daggers at me, and if looks could kill…"Dallas, you are a _grown. Man._ Time to stop pointing fingers." Mom had joined Mary on the ground, and had her arm wrapped around her. Lisa was looking at me and mouthed, " _What the fuck is going on?"_ and I just shook my head. I didn't know how to explain this.

"All I wanted was a sandwich," Pony said, "and instead, I come downstairs to find this dramatic scene."

"Shut up, Pony."

Pony shut up.

"Keith, what're you _doing_ down here?" Mom continued. She really looked pissed. "What the fuck is going on with everyone today? Ponyboy, why'd you bring him down here?"

Dad and Pony exchanged a glance. It was a fair question, considering Dad was carrying around a tank full of oxygen and needed to hang on to Pony to stay upright. He hadn't said anything yet. "I asked," Dad said simply, shrugging. "You know me – can't sit still for long."

Dad smiled like that was a good answer. Mom stared at him like he was the biggest dumbass on the planet.

"Not even dying?" Mom asked, her voice shocking in the silence.

"Nup," he said cheerfully. He sounded _kinda_ wheezy, and the cannula in his nose made him sound all weird, so he sounded like he had a cold, not lung cancer. "Not even dyin'."

Mom's mouth hung open a bit and she continued to stare at him. But then she threw up her hands and asked, "What's going on in here?" And she was looking right at me, so I knew I was gonna have to be the one to answer.

"Um." I vaguely gestured to Mary. "Mary's upset."

"We can see that."

"She's upset because she thinks Dad doesn't like her" – Dad's eyes went wide and stayed that way – "and she's jealous of the whole… _project_ …we've been working on," I said, instantly feeling stupid and small. Mom closed her eyes for a moment and then looked at Dad, who held up a hand like he had no idea what anybody was talking about.

But that's bullshit. Dad knew what everyone was talking about. Dad knew _exactly_ what we were talking about. He knew that he and Mary had been going at each other for decades. I wonder what it was like when she was really little, before even I was born. From what I can tell, Mary was the light of Dad's life. She looked just like Mom, and as we've established, _Dad loves Mom_. So when Mary says that he sees Aunt Sadie in Lisa and himself in me, she doesn't get that he sees Mom in her. And Mom and Dad used to annoy the shit out of each other. But Mary is their daughter, and that's enough for him to love her. That's all she needs to be. Dad adores the both of them, even I can see that, and he's going to worry more about Mary because he can. Mom came to him the way she is – the good and the bad. And Dad loves the good. But the bad is hard to change. When he sees the bad in Mom cropping up in the bad in Mary, he wants to nip it in the bud. Because at the end of the day, he wants her to be happy. It's something that Lisa and I get.

Mary doesn't get that.

"I can't believe the two of you," Mom sighed. "Mary," she began, voice strong, "your father does not hate you. He loves you. And so do I. And we love your siblings, too, but trust me – you've all fucked up equally over the years. The field is leveled." She even made a little leveling motion. Cute. "Alright?" She looked at me. "Alright?" She looked at Mary. "Alright. We're done with this. Absolutely, one-hundred percent _done._ Mary, get off the ground and go with your father and Ponyboy. Pony, if you want a goddamn sandwich so bad, _I'll bring you one_. Keith, next time I see your ass out of bed, you're gonna catch hell from me. And Dallas…" She trailed off for a moment and stared at me, chewing her lip. She jabbed a finger at me. "Dallas, you stay _right there_."

Everyone slowly dispersed, awkwardly shuffling away. Mom hadn't given Lisa anywhere to go, so she just sorta hovered in the archway before remembering she was an adult and could make decisions for herself, and then disappeared. Mom stayed with me. Man, did I feel like a kid again. Guess it wasn't too surprising, then, that I acted like one.

"I wasn't trying to hurt her feelings," I said, defending myself before Mom could jump on me. "I just wanted to get a story from her."

Mom just sat down across from me. "Alright. But you must've said something to set her off."

"I just said that I know it isn't always easy for her to talk about Dad."

"It's not easy for any of us to talk about Dad right now. But you're talking about the past, right?"

"Yeah." I shoved over my notebook. "This is what she told me."

Of course, I made the whole thing more prose-y than the way she told it. Mom quickly scanned through it, her expression unchanging the entire time. At the end, she gave a small nod. "That's sweet. But she's right – she wanted nothing to do with us back then." But Mom was kinda smiling when she said it. "Mary's right, though. You and Dad really have something special. This has been hard on all of us, but I know it's a different sort of hard on you."

I knew that it was a different sort of hard on all of us. Mom was about to become a widow. Lisa was losing the man who'd given her _everything_. Mary was coming to terms with this tense relationship ended.

And as close as I am to Tony, I was about to lose my best fucking friend, and the only reaction I had for that was tears.

And it felt like my fault.

"Oh, Dallas honey, why are _you_ crying now?"

I sniffled like a gross little kid and ran my hand under my nose, which made Mom sigh. I knew it was gross, but I couldn't help it. I'd reverted back to being a child, and now that I was there, it felt good. My Mom was supposed to put up with me when I was like this. She loved me. "Mama, this is all my fault," I whispered. "When I was a kid, Dad…I knew. I _knew_. And he'd do it right in front of me and tell me not to tell you…and he was damn good at covering his tracks."

Mom sighed again and shook her head. "Oh, Dallas," she breathed. "Honey. This isn't your fault. This was always gonna happen. Always."

I looked up in surprise. "Did you know?"

She shrugged. "Not exactly. But it didn't surprise me when I found out. I was angry, of course, about the lying. I know it seemed like such a small thing to him at the time, but…" She heaved a sigh. "Well. Now it's not so small, is it?" Mom leaned back and crossed her arms. "Nothing is a big deal to him. He's always been like that. Nothing _concerns_ him. Well, that's an exaggeration. Not _nothing_. But he doesn't always think about how what he does will affect others. He's just so…"

"I get you," I said, not having a word for whatever he was either. But he was something, that was for sure. "Have you guys talked about it since it happened?"

"Not really. I just…I don't want to be mad at him. And the good thing is that lying in bed with him each night, knowing that in the morning he could be gone? Makes it easy to not be mad at him. I know that sounds bad," she added as an afterthought. "But it's true. You know what's funny?"

I sniffled again. "What?"

"You know your father didn't go to college," she said, and I nodded. "And that's fine – I don't care. But you think you're in every way your father, but you…you've always had this _drive_ , Dallas honey. Your father doesn't have that, not really. But he's a stubborn ass, that's for sure, and so is Mary." Mom smirked. "Believe me, sweetheart, you're not just him and she's not just me. You're both of us, honey. You're neither of you one or the other. I like seeing myself in all of you…usually," she added, smirking. "But Dallas?"

"Huh?"

Mom clasped her hands in front of her. "Right now is not the time to rehash all this. Your father and sister need to figure themselves out for themselves. Got it?"

Well, everyone who knows me knows I'm a fan of figuring yourself out. "I got it, Mama."

XXXXX

 _…_ _I thought of Sylvia and Evie and Sandy and Two-Bit's many blondes. They were the only kind of girls that would look at us, I thought. Tough, loud girls who wore too much eye makeup and giggled and swore too much. I liked Soda's girl Sandy just fine, though. Her hair was natural blond and her laugh was soft, like her china-blue eyes. She didn't have a real good home or anything and was our kind- greaser- but she was a real nice girl. Still, lots of times I wondered what other girls were like. The girls who were bright-eyed and had their dresses a decent length and acted as if they'd like to spit on us if given a chance. Some were afraid of us, and remembering Dallas Winston, I didn't blame them. But most looked at us like we were dirt- gave us the same kind of look that the Socs did when they came by in their Mustangs and Corvairs and yelled "Grease!" at us. I wondered about them. The girls, I mean... Did they cry when their boys were arrested, like Evie did when Steve got hauled in, or did they run out on them the way Sylvia did Dallas? But maybe their boys didn't get arrested or beaten up or busted up in rodeos._

"Two-Bit's many blondes." I smirked. It had been years since I'd read _The Outsiders._ We all knew the story pretty well, anyway, and it's not like my family always wanted to relive it. But it was always funny for me when Dad popped up in there, with mentions of blondes and Kathy Lawson and a girl named Marcia that Mom was once very close with, these other women that he didn't end up with, knowing all the time that Mom is lurking somewhere in the background, unmentioned and unilluded to in any way, but still there. Was she one of the bright-eyed girls who'd shouted at boys like Dad and his friends? Did she look at them like they were dirt? Or was she afraid of them? I knew she kept her dresses a decent length from the pictures I'd seen of her.

She said I had a little bit of her in me. Logically, I knew that was true. But all these years, everyone had said I was like Dad. And I was proud of that. I always have been. But eighteen-and-a-half-year-old Two-Bit Mathews swiped stuff from stores and flipped girls' skirts and hung around school for longer than he should have. I have no material about Mom to actually read, but I know she at least presented herself as sort of a snob. But Mom and Dad raised us to know better than to act that way – the way they had. So maybe Two-Bit did get arrested and beaten and busted up. Maybe Mom did think greasers were dirt and maybe she was afraid of them. But at the end of the day, they still somehow ended up together, the three of us kids still came into being, we still grew up knowing they loved us, even when it felt like they wanted nothing to do with us. Dad was right all those years ago when I'd chewed out Georgie Parker right there in our front yard – we _did_ have a charmed life.

The days felt longer without Dad's noise breathing life into this place. And I'm sure the impending sorrow wasn't doing much to alleviate the pall in the house. So I let Lisa hang out with Sammy downstairs and play board games and watch cartoons. I let myself hear the soft murmurs between Dad and Mary as they sat together in his room, just talking. I listened to my mother and uncles' voices carry up from downstairs. I let that all happen around me as I lay on the bed in my old room and reread _The Outsiders_. The last time I'd read it, I'd been in a hospital in Tulsa. This was a much more pleasant, if not more melancholy, experience.

I thought about Johnny. _Our_ Johnny, not Johnny Cade. I wondered if he thought about his namesake as much as I thought about mine. If he ever got mad at his father for naming him after that poor boy. Or if he felt like it was an honor to be named after a hero, while I was named after a hood who did the right thing…once. To my knowledge, at least. All these years later, and it's still hard for me to reconcile that.

It was funny though – I never knew these boys, but in my own little way, I missed them. Just a little bit. I wonder what Dallas Winston would make of me. If he would think I'm too much like my father. If he would think Two-Bit was some sort of traitor for falling in love with a well-to-do girl.

But then I had another thought: What if my father and uncles didn't really miss _him_ , but the _idea_ of him? And Johnny, too. Had they known them long enough, had they been gone too long? Did it hurt every time Pony returned home and drove past Pickett and Sutton? Did Dad ever go past that hospital where Johnny died and remember with painful clarity telling off Mrs. Cade? Did Steve ever walk by the lot just because he could? Did Sodapop ever think about Sandy? Did Darry ever stop by the old house where he'd looked after his brothers – all of them?

Or was the past just the past? And did it need to stay there?

XXXXX

 **AN: I had to research the FOX TV schedule for that week to make sure I was right on that. For anyone who's curious, Thanksgiving 1991 was on November 28** **th** **, and the** ** _Simpsons_** **episode the week before was "Flaming Moe's", and the episode the week after was "Burns Verkaufen der Kraftwerk", and Mary and Lisa are referencing the episodes "Lisa's Pony", "Mr. Lisa Goes to Washington", "Bart vs. Thanksgiving", and "Moaning Lisa." Also obvious: I don't own anything** ** _Simpsons_** **related, but I sure wish I did.**

 **Thanks for reading :)**


	14. My Wandering Days

**Author's Note: Hey there, guys! Next chapter. It kinda bops around, but that's how it's supposed to be.**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

"I've got some loose ends for you."

 _Loose ends?_ "Whaddyah mean?"

Dad shrugged. I was surprised he was sitting up, even. He looked bad – eyes sunken and red, his skin a pale, yellow-ish color, his breathing ragged and phlegmy. Watching someone actively die is a bitch. "Means that there's just some stuff I've been remembering the past few days that, ya know, don't really fit anywhere else. But I thought we might like to get them down."

I was in no position to be picky. Anything I could get from him was welcome.

"Lemme grab my stuff."

XXXXX

 _Entry #13_

 _(AKA, the Loose Ends)_

 _"_ _Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow, man!"_

 _Darry glared at me and finished stitching up my cheek. There was already a black eye blooming on his right eye, but that didn't take any of the heat away. "That was only four stitches, dumbass."_

 _"_ _Four painful stitches, smartass," I shot back._

 _"_ _Where's Pony?" Soda suddenly asked. "He didn't come home with us."_

 _Steve just groaned, and Darry and I shrugged. Soda twisted his mouth to the side and then threw up his hands as if to say 'Ya know what? I'm too tired to care. He'll show up.'_

 _Until then, Darry stitched my hand and we sat around. All the channels had signed off. Darry and I spread the paper out in front of us and read the sports page and the comics just to be doing something, sitting Indian-style like we used to do in Sunday school._

 _It was too quiet._

 _And then the kid came in, and everything – everything – changed._

XXXXX

 _You'd be better off asking Bee about all this, but the summer of 1967, she and I somehow ended up in San Francisco, at Ponyboy Curtis's insistence._

 _I never could say no to that kid._

 _I spent three weeks in and around Haight-Ashbury, trying every drug under the sun and experiencing "high" in a whole new way._

 _"_ _Bee, you think I look good in tie-dye?"_

 _"_ _I think everyone looks good in tie-dye."_

 _"_ _Great! I'd like ten of these."_

XXXXX

 _"_ _She broke up with me, man," I told Steve over the phone. He was already on base. I was waiting._

 _"_ _She did?" He asked, sounding sorry._

 _"_ _Yeah!" I suddenly shouted. "Man, I knew from day one she was bad news. Knew it the second I saw her. I wasted three years of my life chasing after her."_

 _"_ _Yeah."_

 _"_ _And she thinks she can just call it off? She thinks I'm gonna die, Steve!"_

 _"_ _You might, Two-Bit."_

 _I hung up on him._

XXXXX

 _"_ _Lucky thing you already came with a nickname, Private."_

XXXXX

 _"_ _Hell, Mathews, you ain't a bad shot."_

 _"_ _You sound surprised."_

 _"_ _Just wonderin' how you're better 'an me when I've been here three months already."_

 _I shrugged. "Beats me."_

 _"_ _You don't wanna be here, do ya?"_

 _I laughed out loud. "Fuck no. And you do?"_

XXXXX

 _"_ _Fuck, that's a lot of blood. Fuck, it's not stopping."_

 _"_ _Two-Bit, man, don't fuckin' close your eyes, you asshole! Stay awake. Shit, man…"_

XXXXX

 _I woke up with another scar on my stomach to match the one on my face. Some Gook got me in the abdomen and almost ended it for me. At least I got out of there earlier than I expected. It was that bad._

XXXXX

 _"_ _Lookit those shiny, medals! And this fancy uniform. Gotta grow that hair out, though."_

 _"_ _Already workin' on it, Darrel."_

XXXXX

 _Sodapop got it. He got all of it. He'd already been. And the four of us waited for Steve to come back._

XXXXX

 _The universe works in mysterious ways. Why is it that as much as Bee and I wanted to hate each other, the rest of the world wouldn't allow for it?_

 _But she was back. And I was still in love with her. Fuck._

XXXXX

 _"It rained at Woodstock."_

 _I gave Bee a concerned look. "What?" I asked._

 _"It rained," she repeated. "And it was hot. Everything stuck to me. You know what else?" she whispered._

 _"What else?"_

 _"It's the most alive I've felt in my life," she admitted. "I've never felt that way before. It was electric."_

 _Something really did stick to her there. She was different. And I couldn't decide yet if it was a good different or a bad different._

XXXXX

 _"It'll cure anything."_

 _She stared into the glass, into the thick liquid that I had shoved her way. She swallowed hard._

 _"I'm not exactly hungover, Two-Bit," she mumbled._

 _"You're as good as!" I proclaimed. "Whether you drink it, snort it, smoke it, or toke it... I don't care. I don't want to deal with whatever comes after."_

 _Bee was such a grouch coming off a high. Me? I was a bear when I was hungover, I'll admit that. But getting high in other ways just left me sleepy. It seemed to leave Bee disoriented sometimes. The harder stuff, that is. Pot relaxed us – her especially. But acid trips were something else. They wore me out; they strung her out._

 _We needed to stop this, probably._

 _Bridget gave the concoction one more cursory glance, took a deep breath, and went for it. The face she pulled almost made the whole thing worth it, and I had to laugh._

 _"Better?" I asked, and she snorted and wiped at her eyes._

 _"Hardly," she spat. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what was in that?"_

 _"You don't need to know. All you need to know is that it's gonna work, you just gotta give it some time."_

 _She glared at me._

 _"_ _Shut the fuck up, Keith."_

 _Yeah. We needed to stop this, definitely._

XXXXX

 _"_ _Come with me to New York."_

 _"_ _Okay."_

XXXXX

 _"_ _You're going to New York?"_

 _"_ _Wait – what? Who's going to New York?"_

 _"_ _For how long?"_

 _"_ _Um. Forever?"_

 _Pony cried._

XXXXX

 _"_ _Are you scared?"_

 _I was scared as shit. I didn't know how I was s'posed to be a dad. I'm a dumbass._

 _Bridget smiled a little. "You know you ask me that all the time, don't you?"_

 _I nodded. "Yeah. But I gotta make sure you're still scared, cuz I don't want to be the only one who is scared, which would make me look like an idiot because if you're not scared, I definitely shouldn't be scared, and…and I'm rambling and I need to shut up, but dammit, Bee, ain't you scared?"_

 _She nodded. "Hell yeah, I'm scared."_

 _Her voice was small. So was the hand she put on her stomach. Six months. That was scary. Light bounced off the diamond on her left hand, and I subconsciously started twisting the ring on mine. A month. We'd been married a month. I could've pinched myself. I thought I was dreaming. Sometimes, I wish I was. Time needed to stop passing._

XXXXX

 _"Lemme see her!" I whispered._

 _Bridget looked up at me, and for a second there, she didn't look as though she was going to let me see her. But then she handed her to me, right into my arms, and all of a sudden I was holding this small pink...shit, that's a baby. That's my baby. What the fuck?_

 _"Well, shoot," I grinned. "Would ya lookit that." All Mary did was stare up at me, but man, it felt good._

 _"She's real perfect, Two-Bit."_

 _I looked at Bridget. "Ain't she?" I said. "She really is somethin'. I ain't ever seen somethin' so beautiful."_

 _She raised her eyebrows. "Not even me?"_

 _I laughed. "Maybe you're tied." Bee nodded her head, and I sat myself down in the chair next to the bed. They were both nodding off, rightfully so, but I was wide-awake. Completely over-stimulated._

 _"_ _Mmm. Mary Elizabeth. Think we could call her Lizzy?"_

 _Bridget didn't open her eyes. "I think we could call her Mary." And that seemed to be the end of that._

 _"_ _I heard you did a real good job," I told her._

 _"_ _Yeah, I guess I did."_

 _"_ _Did ya miss me?"_

 _"_ _I did."_

 _"_ _Yeah, I missed you, too. Man, she's beautiful, Bee."_

 _(The first thing ever said about my precious daughter was Darry saying: "Would you lookit that. Thank god she ain't ugly like her daddy." Figures.)_

XXXXX

 _I taught Mary how to soft shoe when she was about nine months old. We did it to Cat Stevens. She was real good at it. She put her fat little feet on top of mine, and then I leaned down a bit so I could grab her chubby little hands. Mary looked up at me and grinned. A few baby teeth were showin', and I had to smile back down at her._

 _"_ _Look at you," Bee drawled. "You finally found a partner that doesn't mind your two left feet."_

 _"_ _Hardy-har-har. You're a laff-riot, Honey Bee."_

 _Bridget just smiled and went back to her magazine, singing along. ("Trouble, oh trouble, move away…I have seen your face, and it's too much for me today…")_

XXXXX

 _Another baby?_

 _It's more likely than you'd think._

XXXXX

 _"_ _I missed_ Star Wars _for_ this?"

 _"_ _Oh, yes, because a movie about spaceships is so much more important than the birth of your son."_

XXXXX

 _"_ _Ya know, everything's really perfect right now."_

 _"_ _How's that, Sodapop?"_

 _Sodapop shrugged. "Well, I mean, I feel like all of our families are where they should be."_

 _Steve gave him a funny look. "Your wife ran away from home."_

 _Sodapop smacked him upside the head. "Right. So that means we don't need her, me and Franny. So everything's perfect. Darry, you've got Jackie and the kids, and they're great! And Steve, your family, too! I mean, you married Evie! It's amazing! And Pony's wife is from England – how cool is that!"_

 _"_ _Soda," Pony sighed, "you're drunk. Shut up."_

 _He didn't shut up. Steve and I glanced at each other, both of us trying not to laugh. "And when ya add us all up, there's twenty of us. It's a nice even number. Twenty is a real good number, I'll tell you what. Nice and even. Ten and ten. Right down the middle."_

 _"_ _Hey, Soda?" I piped up._

 _"_ _Yeah, Two-Bit."_

 _"_ _Bee's pregnant again."_

 _Soda just stared at me. Darry, before taking a pull off his beer, said, "There goes your nice even twenty."_

 _XXXXX_

 _"_ _Daddy, I don't want another one."_

 _"_ _Another one what?"_

 _"_ _Sibling. Dallas is enough."_

 _"_ _Well, that's tough, Mary Elizabeth, because the baby's already here and the hospital has a strict no-return policy."_

XXXXX

 _"_ _Oh, Lisa May, you're perfect," I told her, right after she'd happily spit up all over me._

XXXXX

 _"Are you gonna read to me tonight?"_

 _I looked at Mary and nodded. I stood up from her bed and headed over to her bookshelf, flipping through the faded covers. "Whaddya feelin tonight, sweet pea?" I smiled. She frowned._

 _"The book I want you to read isn't over there," she said. I raised an eyebrow._

 _"Shoot, babygirl. Where is it then?" I asked._

 _Mary opened the drawer on her bedside table and pulled out a different book. I walked over to her and took it out of her hand. My eyes went wide._

 _Oh, god._

 _"You wanna read this?" I asked. Mary crossed her arms._

 _"Well yeah! I tried taking it to school, and the principal said I shouldn't be reading it."_

 _Well, that confused me. It was just a Judy Blume book. I mean, sure it had some…advanced stuff for a ten year old, but hell. This stuff is all gonna happen to her eventually. And who the hell gets off thinking they can tell my kid what to read? Nuh-uh. We don't work that way in this house. If Mary wants to read about...female adolescence...ugh, I can't even finish that sentence._

 _"Alright then," I agreed, trying to smile at her, but I'd heard some things about this one._

 _("You bought her a book about periods?"_

 _Bee shot me an annoyed look. "It's not just about periods, Two-Bit. There's a lot more to being a young woman than that."_

 _"_ _And you think it's okay for her to be reading this?"_

 _"_ _Oh, for fuck's sake, Keith.")_

 _I flopped down beside her on her bed, and opened up to the first page of_ _Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret_ _, and vowed to get back at my wife for this somehow because Jesus Christ, if I have to say the word "bra" one more time, I'm gonna fucking lose it._

XXXXX

"You're a master of dialogue, Dad. It's real funny what your brain chooses to remember."

Dad huffed a laugh and ran a hand down his face, careful of the tubes running into his nose. I laughed, too, as I finished writing. I flipped through all the pages I had. We'd covered so much. But there was one thing that Dad had barely touched on that I was still curious about.

"What about Vietnam?" I asked.

Dad paused. "What about it?" He asked, trying to sound disinterested.

"That's the most you've ever talked about it. At least with me."

"That so? Huh. Well, there's not much to tell."

"Aw, you know that's not true."

Dad raised an eyebrow. "Ya know, your sisters aren't near as nosy as you are."

"Hey – this little project was _your_ idea, if I recall, which I _do_. It's my job to be nosy."

Dad looked skeptical. "Uh-huh. Well, hate to break it to ya kid, but that's all yer gonna get outta me about it because it ain't exactly my favorite topic of discussion."

I got that, and it made me feel a little guilty. I really shouldn't force a dying man to talk about his time at war.

That's what Uncle Steve and Uncle Soda were for!

XXXXX

I wanted to ask about Vietnam, but there was a rule in my family that went something like this:

You never ask about Vietnam.

It was a sore subject.

But I had decided to break this cardinal rule.

"Uncle Soda?"

I'd found him and Steve down in the basement. They were listening to Cat Stevens, and I thought instantly of the story Dad had told me about earlier with him and Mary. "Trouble" is a good song. Doesn't Cat go by Yusuf now? Man, I don't know.

"Hey, kiddo."

"Can I ask you something?

"Always always."

"Why don't you guys ever talk about Vietnam?"

Instant silence. Which, I expected. Not gonna lie. As someone who likes to consider himself a historian, I know – logically – that Vietnam was complicated. That there's a whole different world of hurt associated with it that Dad never wanted to talk about, but Mom had no problem speaking against. (But she always said, "Let's just not talk about it, alright? It was horrible, so let's not talk about it. Brings up too many painful reminders.") And I was still very curious.

But maybe I should put that curiosity away for a while.

"I'm sorry to…to bring up bad stuff."

Soda and Steve glanced at each other. They, too, had a silent way of communicating with each other. I guess you know somebody so long, you know all their tells, what each little gesture they make means.

"It's okay, Dally," Soda shrugged. "It's part of the story. We get it."

"And we wouldn't…well, we wouldn't tell you anything we weren't ready to. Not right now," Steve added, his voice softer than usual.

"Yeah," Soda agreed. "With everything goin' on, I don't think I'd be able to tell you the really awful stuff. Hope that's okay."

I shook my head quickly. That was more than okay. "No! I mean – yes! That's fine. It's okay, really. I just…I was just curious. Dad almost never talked about it."

"There's a reason for that."

"I know."

"In theory, yeah. You do."

They both gave me a wry look that said ' _Yeah, we know you've read all about it in your books and taken the classes and watched the documentaries and read the testimonials and memoirs and written the papers and made the arguments and dug through the archives and watched the broadcasts and listened to the radio shows, but you didn't live it like we had to, you didn't have to fear for your life every day, you didn't have to worry about your buddies or what your family would do if you died; didn't have to learn how to use a firearm in almost no time at all; didn't have to go to boot camp; didn't have to dread getting mail; didn't have to question the sanity of your government as you fought for a cause you couldn't even begin to understand.'_ That's what that said.

"Yeah," I breathed. "I do."

I blew out another sigh and ran a hand through my hair, suddenly feeling awkward. But goddammit, there are gaps to be filled! Questions to be answered! How am I supposed to have a complete picture of my father – nevermind give his grandson a full one – without details about this particular part of his life? How am I supposed to live knowing that the five of them each were dealt the shittiest of hands the first twenty-ish years of their lives, and just expect them to bury it? I can't live with that. I don't want their stories to go untold.

"Here's what I will tell you," Steve began again, and I sank onto a couch. He poured he and Soda each a drink. They sure had been drinking a lot since they'd come here. Cat Stevens sang in the background – " _But I might die tonight!"_ – and Soda just stared into his drink. "We were all pretty fucked up when we came back. It's like…we didn't know how to be people for a while. Soda'd had some time by the time your dad and I were back. And coming home last was hard. I…" He ran a hand down his face. "Anyway. We came back, is what's important. And I asked Evie to marry me only a couple months after I got home."

"Got married on the Fourth of July," Soda grinned reminiscently, saying it _Ju-ly_. "You're such a _patriot._ "

"Yeah, yeah," Steve dismissed. "Kid, I can't tell you the specifics. I don't want to. I don't want to do that to you."

"Okay," I whispered. "I really am sorry I asked."

"Don't be," Soda shook his head. "Maybe someday," he added, offering the olive branch, "but…not right now."

Right. Not right now. Not when their buddy, who got shot by North Vietnamese and lived to tell the tale, was about to die because his lungs had turned black. Because they didn't even _work_ , not as good as his trigger finger. Not right now, when they made it through all that shit and not this. Not when the Curtises were losing their friends, one by one. Not when death hadn't surprised them in fifty years.

"I really am sorry," I said again, meaning something totally different this time.

"It's alright, kid," Steve sighed, but I knew it wasn't.

XXXXX

I walked upstairs, the old wooden steps creaking beneath my feet as I climbed. I went into my parents' room and saw Mary lying in bed beside Dad, he propped up on his back and she curled onto her side. I think I interrupted something. They both turned to look at me. Dad ran a hand down his beard. I felt a bit awkward.

"Hey," I said softly.

"Hey," Mary breathed. We hadn't talked much since she'd broken down. She got out of bed, Dad watching her go. She whispered something to him and he nodded, smiling at her. She kissed his bearded cheek and he patted her head. Mary came over to me. "Good timing."

I raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

Mary nodded towards Dad. "He wants to see you, Dallas."

"Where's Mom?" I asked.

"Taking a shower."

There was weight to that statement. Probably had something to do with the blood on Mary's hands. The blood I'd just noticed encrusted under her fingertips. "Oh."

"Yeah."

She left. I almost didn't want her to. I wanted to tell her to stay. I wanted to tell her she should stay with him. That he wanted to see her, too.

"Hey, Dallas."

Dad's voice was like sandpaper scratching against his throat, but we smiled at each other. What else was there to do? But he sounded worse than when I'd seen him earlier. It made my chest ache.

"Hey, Dad," I said, equally quiet. "What's up?"

"What's up with you?" He asked. "Why'd you come up here?"

I shrugged and sat on the edge of the bed. "I dunno. Just…" I was gonna tell him that I wanted to ask him about Vietnam, really ask him and get some real answers, but I couldn't bring myself to. He seemed to be in enough pain as is. "Just wanted to say 'hey.' Why'd you want to see me?"

Dad's smile was starting to reach his eyes a bit. "Just wanted to say 'hey'," he parroted, and I felt myself laugh.

"Really," I said. "Why'd you want to see me?"

Dad's smile fell. He tried to sit forward but couldn't, so I moved a bit closer. "I've been talking to Mary." I nodded. I knew. We all knew. "About what happened the other day."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Dad shut his eyes for a moment and pushed a breath out his nose. He did that a lot when he was annoyed and was trying hard not to go off. But I don't think he could go off right now even if he wanted to. And I don't even really know if he was actually annoyed or just struggling. "Dallas. Being a parent is really hard."

"Yeah," I agreed. It seemed to be all I knew to say.

"I know you've got Sam. And I know the two of you have been through hell. But you haven't been doin' it as long as I have. And I thought it'd get easier as you guys got older, but it just got _harder_. Sometimes…sometimes I feel like I've screwed up so badly…" He ran his hands down his face, and when he pulled them away, I was surprised to notice that he'd started getting choked up, and when _Dad_ cries… "I just wanna know that I didn't completely fuck up with you three."

I shook my head. "Dad, no. You didn't. Really," I whispered. "Are you…are you and Mary okay?"

He nodded. "Yeah, we're fine," he whispered, then cocked his head. "I think. I can't…what we've put each other through…"

I'll be honest: I hated hearing my father get introspective. It was scary when he did. It meant that something really bad had happened, or was going to happen. Which, yeah, this whole dying thing was really bad. But this whole thing was still scaring me. I wanted him to stop. I wanted to tell him to _stop_.

"Dad," I cut in, "it's okay."

"It's too late," he said.

"No. No, it's not," I contradicted. "It's not too late and you didn't fuck up and you didn't fuck _us_ up and Mom still loves you and your best friends are here because none of us wants you to be alone. Okay?"

Dad stared at me. God, he didn't even _look_ like my dad anymore. He looked like someone who I was never supposed to meet. "They were in here earlier," he said. "The guys. We were…we were talkin.' And I…well, I feel like a real heel for leavin' them behind. I can't believe I'm putting 'em through all this again. And don't say it was always gonna happen 'cuz I still feel like shit about it anyway."

I didn't say it. "What'd you talk about?"

He smirked through wet eyes. "Nothing and everything," he grinned. He glanced at me and shrugged. "I mean, what's left to say? They have more life to live and I don't. No more double dates or road trips to plan, kiddo. That's done."

I wanted to say something, but the shower shut off and Mom came in, wrapped in a towel and with one on her head. Dad craned his neck so he could look at her, and I almost grimaced because she was essentially naked and Dad was… _admiring_ her. In front of me. Blech. He reached a hand towards her.

"Hey, pretty lady."

"Hey, Two-Bit," she returned, grabbing his hand and giving it a quick squeeze. "Okay?"

"Okay's relative at this point."

"For the moment, then?"

"For the moment."

I suddenly felt like I was intruding on something. All the shorthand and the little looks and touches. "I'll leave you two alone," I said, rubbing the back of my neck and getting up. Mom glanced over at me, hesitated a moment and then nodded.

"Alright," she breathed, heading into the closet. Dad watched her go in and then smiled at me.

"I got lucky, kid," he told me, and I knew exactly when he as getting at.

"You sure did. She's a great lady," I said, not minding admitting it now that I was grown up and could see my mother better for who she was. And she was both stronger and weaker than I'd given her credit for.

"She really is," Dad agreed. "Ya know," he began, "I don't know where I'd be if I hadn't met her." Dad bit his lip. "She, uh. Well, what I'm gettin' at is that I'm real glad I met her." He winked. "Glad I met the three of you, too."

I tapped the doorjamb and smiled at him. "Yeah, love you too, Dad."

He was still smiling. "Night, Dallas Mathews."

"Night, old man."

"Close the door when you go," he said, and I nodded.

"I'll shut off the light, too."

XXXXX

 **AN: Cat Stevens also goes by Yusuf now, btw.**

 **Thanks for reading :)**


	15. An Old Friend On Our Front Porch

**Author's Note: Next chapter, pals! Direct quote from** ** _The Outsiders_** **ahead, which I obviously don't own.**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

The loose ends always come last, ya know.

XXXXX

 _Entry #1, Part 4_

 _1999_

I ran from Darry's house to the library.

(I ran away.) (Again.)

The sky over me was getting dark; definitely rain. There was a weird charge in the air that meant lightning, too, but I kept running. My feet hurt like crazy cuz everyone knows hightops are shit and there's no goddamn support, but at least I wasn't runnin' across concrete in cleats. And I got to the library just an hour before closing time.

"Hi," I breathed to the little old lady library behind the front desk. "Could I see the county death records?" She gave me the funniest look through her little glasses, and I almost started laughing. But I just stared at her instead. "Please?"

"Yes," she said slowly.

"Where are they?"

She then proceeded to lead me to the back where all the county death records are. "Thanks. Say – do you have anything on Dallas Winston?"

Something flicked in her eyes for a moment. "Have you read _The Outsiders_?"

Oh, for fuck's sakes. "Yeah, I have," I drawled. "But, uh, is there anything else?" I asked, not mentioning that my sorta-uncle sorta wrote the book and my dad was sorta, well, in it. And that I was sorta named after the guy I was asking about.

The librarian put a finger to her chin. "Well. There's newspaper articles. You could look for him in the microfiche. That might be helpful."

"Thank you, ma'am."

She patted my arm. "No problem, honey. Remember, we close at five."

And then I was off. County death records revealed that Dallas Tucker Winston died on November seventeenth, 1966 at ten-oh-four at night after being shot by police just down the street from where the Curtises grew up. Right – the old abandoned lot. Right. Cause of death was – you guessed it – several gunshot wounds to the chest. Yikes. That all I knew. When I scrolled through the microfiche, I found countless articles concerning Dallas's police record, as well as the article about him, Johnny, and Pony saving those kids. You know – the one with their pictures in it, and the pictures of the brothers together at the hospital.

That's the first time I'd ever seen a picture of Johnny Cade or Dallas Winston.

They were just how Pony had described. Johnny was dark-skinned and timid-looking, while Dallas was towheaded and angry-looking. It was hard to believe that any of my family were ever friends with anyone as mean-looking as him, and even more surprising that I was named after him.

Staring at Dallas's picture, I felt a sick feeling in my stomach. This was him. All those years that Mom and Dad told me I was named after a _different_ Dallas, I'd stupidly believed them. God, I'm such an idiot. These answers were in front of me the whole time, and I was too stupid to find them. Some historian I'd make. But I couldn't believe it. Here he was, there they were, and here I was, sweating and staring at this guy.

"We're closin' in ten, sweetie."

I looked up. The librarian was back. I nodded. I felt funny. "No problem. Uh. Could you help me with one more thing?"

"Sure thing, sweetie."

"Could you help me find a grave?"

It was easier than I thought. The librarian just brought up the obituaries, and I waited and listened to the rain pounding on the roof of the library and listened to the thunder and lightning. A real good summer storm. The lady helped me find the plot and wrote it down on a piece of paper for me. But she looked worried.

"You got a ride?"

"I'll be fine," I said, even though I felt funny. "Thanks for all your help."

"No problem. Have a good night, hon."

"Yeah, you too."

I went back out into the rain, to find Dallas.

 _I didn't like him, but he was smart and you had to respect him_.

I don't know what I thought I was gonna find there, but I had to find him.

 _I didn't like him, but he was smart and you had to respect him_.

Ponyboy didn't even like him. Said so in his book. Told the whole world he didn't like the hood I was named after. So why my father named me after him is a mystery, and why Pony would want to live with the hurt of a son named after his dead buddy is also beyond me.

 _I didn't like him, but he was smart and you had to respect him_.

I ran through the rain and to the cemetery, wandering through the boneyard to the old section. The farther back I went, the less there were headstones and the more there were just simple markers. Dallas and Johnny were buried side-by-side. I'd noticed when we were looking up their graves that they were in neighboring plots. I guess that was appropriate.

I found him under a mangled oak tree.

My stomach turned into a block of ice as I looked at the marker.

 _Dallas Tucker Winston_

 _November ninth, 1949-November seventeenth, 1966_

That was it. That was all. So that boy, the one I'd read about in the papers at the library, the one who saved Uncle Pony and his friend Johnny from that fire...here he was. Six feet under for the last thirty-three years. Shot down under a streetlight in the park.

I sobbed. I stared at this sorry grave - two, actually! - and cried until I felt sick to my stomach. Why had my parents named me after some scummy greaser who hated the world? I don't hate the world; people like Dallas and Kat hate the world. Hell, let 'em. They're cowards. Fucking cowards, all of them. I ain't a coward. Fast balls? I'll hit 'em. Detention? No biggie. Dad and I just laughed it off cuz we know it ain't a big deal, not in the long run. Tony's dad? Mom and I were calling the cops almost as soon as she saw me come in the door that day, sobbing out that Tony's dad beat him up. Hospitals? Not anymore, I'm not scared of those. Diabetes? Screw it. Everyone has been right about that my entire life. I'm fine. I don't have to be scared of getting my limbs amputated. I'm a fairly smart guy; I know how to handle whatever life throws at me, and have since I was nine.

I'm not Dallas Winston. I'll never be Dallas Winston. I'll never be the person that was too afraid to face it. Kat was too afraid to face her own life. I can't count how many times I told her that I wanted to help her, that there were people we could call. If she had just met my mom, she'd tell her about truly scary things. Dad would be the fuckin' ray of sunshine he always is, telling jokes and stories and patting her on the back. Mary and Lisa...hell, my sisters annoy the hell out of me, but I love them to death. If there's anyone I could see right now, it would be them. Mary would tell me how I'm a good guy, how there's nothing about the adult world to be afraid of. Then Lisa would be there, sweet little Lisa, and I'd turn around and hug her and tell her that she was going to be just fine. And Mary would nod. And then maybe we'd go out and grab some burgers and laugh and be siblings again. Kat would've loved them. She would've.

But she was too afraid.

My hands were shaking bad. That was the last thing I remember before passing out right there in the damp grass, right between poor old Johnny Cade and Dallas Winston.

XXXXX

Something was unsettling that night. I lay in bed wide awake because I couldn't help but feel that something was wrong. I eventually shrugged it off. It still shouldn't've surprised me, though, when I woke up and saw Mom sitting on the end of my bed in her dressing gown. She looked the most tired I'd ever seen her in my life, but…there was something different about her, too. Like a bit of her was almost relieved. Sammy was a rock next to me, always a heavy sleeper. I blinked and sat up slowly, leaning on my forearms. There was sunlight coming through the window as it rose, and for as tired as Mom looked, she also looked sort of beautiful sitting there with her hair piled on top of her head, errant curls flying here and there. Translucent.

"Hey, Mama," I whispered, my voice not ready to be any louder yet, conveniently mindful of a still-sleeping Sam. Her expression didn't change.

"Hey, honey."

Mom's voice was soft and low. She reached out and grabbed one of my hands and squeezed it, her lips pressing together. I squeezed back. Looking back on it, I don't know how she could've stood looking at me – I am my father's spitting image, after all. But maybe that was a good thing just then.

"Mom," I began carefully, "What is it?" I asked, even though I had a feeling that I already knew.

"Dallas," she whispered, not breaking eye contact. "Honey."

"Mama."

"Yes, Dallas."

"It happened, didn't it?"

She took in a sharp, deep breath, her back straightening like there was a rod in it. But she nodded, very matter-of-fact about the whole situation. "It did," she confirmed, her voicing cracking _just_ a bit.

I sat up fully. I couldn't speak. I felt like there was a rock on my chest, and also an emptiness. Like when I used to have to do sprints and I'd have gone so hard that it felt like my soul had left my physical body and left me cold. I just sat there holding my mother's hand, the two of us staring at each other. At one point, she thumbed something off my cheek, so I guess I'd started crying.

"I've already told Mary and Lisa. I…I'm sorry," she breathed, "but I didn't know how to tell you."

"It's okay," I squeaked. "Are they…where are they? Is…can I see him?"

Mom nodded pleasantly, like I'd asked permission to have dinner at Tony's house instead of asking permission to see my father's dead body. "Should…Sammy…"

"No," she cut in. "No. I'll stay with him."

"Mom, when did it happen?"

Mom suddenly looked extremely guilty. "I don't know," she admitted. "I-I woke up, and…and I wasn't expecting him to be awake or to even get up, so I got out of bed…and eventually realized I couldn't hear him breathing." Mom was staring out the window, clearly trying not to cry, even though she cried all the time. "And…and I knew then that there was nothing to do…He was already gone. And that's…he told me how hard it was getting. It was time."

I wanted to tell her that was bullshit, that there was never a good time for him to die, but then I realized that was also bullshit: I'd rather he go in his sleep, hopefully unaware, than wide awake and actively suffering.

"I thought we had more time," I choked out.

I robotically got out of bed and crossed the hall and went to their room, where the door was already open. Mary and Lisa were sitting on the bed with him, and the door was too loud in the silence as it creaked open. I told myself to be brave. Pony watched Johnny die right in front of his very eyes, and he made it. And I couldn't just walk away. I was in a trance. I needed to see him. And see him I did.

He didn't really look all that different. I mean, he'd turned really white. And he wasn't responding to anything, obviously. But his hair was still long and his beard was still there and he was wearing the same thing he was wearing when I'd left the room last night. Last night, when he'd told me he was glad he got to meet the three of us. When my last words to him were telling him that I'd turn off the bedroom light. Oh, god. That's it. That's the last thing I ever said to my father.

Fuck.

That's not poetic at all!

Mary looked up when I came into the room. "Hey," she whispered, like she might wake him up. She was holding his hand. Lisa had him by the foot, just staring at him. "Hey, Dallas."

"Hey," I breathed. "Oh, _god_ …"

" _Shh_. Shh, Dallas. I know. We know."

I sat down on Mom's side of the bed – Dad always slept closest to the door. I didn't want to touch him, but looking at him wasn't too bad. That's about all I could process at the moment. I didn't even really process that he was _dead_ – just that I couldn't interact with him ever again. Those two ideas didn't connect in my mind.

"We need to tell them," Lisa whispered, and we all knew who exactly _them_ was. Mary and I both nodded, and the three of us reluctantly left our father's side to go back to my old room.

"Mom," Mary breathed, going to her side. Mom was standing and staring out the window. "Mom, we need to tell them."

Mom didn't say anything at first, just took a deep breath and nodded her head. "Right," she agreed. "Right, right. We need to do that. Let's go."

The four of us quickly walked downstairs, Mom leading the way. I guess she decided it was her duty as our mother to take it from here. It's like she was the adult again, and not the rest of us. We followed her because that was what we do, what we _did_. Like chicks following the mother hen. She opened the door to the basement, and the four of us made our descent. The four of them were sprawled out, sleeping like four old men would. Mom wasn't sensitive to that - she just flicked the light on.

"Hell," Steve moaned. "Ten minutes."

"No more minutes," Mom said authoritatively, hands on her hips. "Wake up."

The three of us stood behind her, practically hanging onto each other as she faced the four of them. "What's up, Bee?" Pony asked as he sat up.

Mom looked like she didn't quite know what to say, like she had known what to say with me. I think it's because she may have been Dad's love, but these were his brothers. Soda stood up like he knew. "Two-Bit died," she finally said.

The whole room was quiet. Still. Darry, Steve, and Ponyboy slowly made their way to their feet. I think we were all waiting for somebody to say something, but no one would.

"Dammit!" Steve finally cried. "Is he really?"

"Yes! _Really!_ God, if you don't believe me, go look for yourself."

Nobody moved because nobody actually wanted to check.

"Bee, what do you want us to do?" Soda asked, stepping forward. Mom couldn't look him in the eye at first. She just kept her hands on her hips and bit her lip. I wanted someone to cry. Why wasn't _I_ crying? What was wrong with everybody? My Dad was dead! Dead! Gone! Forever! And we were all acting like the repairman had showed up at an inconvenient time and we were trying to figure out how to politely tell him he was four hours early and that he needed to fuck off. I wanted someone to cry, _I_ wanted to, but for some reason, I couldn't. But it seemed the only appropriate thing to do.

"We need to call the funeral home. _Don't call the coroner or an ambulance._ Last thing we all need is for someone to think his death was a suspicious one. If I give you the number, would you do that for me, Sodapop?"

Her voice was weighted, but no-nonsense. Mom knew exactly what to do, and by Mary's slight nod, I could tell she was doing the right thing.

"I can do that no problem. Here, let's go."

The two of them went back upstairs to go call the funeral home. The rest of us just sorta stood around in the basement, not quite making eye contact but sparing each other quick glances. I was glad Sam was still asleep because I wasn't exactly enthusiastic about the idea of him seeing his grandfather's body removed from the house.

"You guys can go see him," Mary offered. "If you want."

The three of them all exchanged looks. Darry and Steve were almost unreadable, but Pony looked a bit unsure.

"I…I don't know…" He trailed off.

"You don't have to," Mary shrugged. "But if you want to, this would be your last chance before the funeral."

Lisa closed her eyes at the word "funeral."

"Yeah," Darry said softly. "We'll go see 'im. C'mon, guys."

The three of them made a slow descent up the basement stairs, like they were headed for the gallows. I let out a large sigh when the door clicked, and both my sisters suddenly had their arms around me, and we just stood there, hanging onto each other.

"Did it hurt, ya think?" I asked, voice wavering a bit, tightening my grip around Lisa's shoulders. Mary sighed into my chest. "Do you think he knew it was happening?"

"I hope not," Mary mumbled. "I sure as hell hope not." She looked up. "These last few days…they were definitely hard. He was telling me – when he could manage to talk, that is – that he could…he could _feel_ it happening. He knew. I don't know if he knew that last night…if he knew that was _it_ , but he knew it was coming."

"Was he okay with it?" Lisa asked, voice small.

Mary shrugged. "As okay with it as he could be. If he was scared, he didn't let on. But I wouldn't blame him if he was. It must be terrifying, feeling yourself lose the ability to _breathe_."

"God, yeah," I breathed.

"I wonder how long…" Lisa trailed off. She stared off into space, looking lost. I knew what she meant: how long had he been dead already?

They don't tell you what happens when someone dies. What they will tell you is some bullshit about a (hopefully) better place, if it's out there. But nobody tells you about what actually _happens_ to the body. Because death really is disgusting. I mean, the heart stops. I knew that.

But Mary knew more.

Your body temperature starts dropping one-point-six degrees Fahrenheit an hour until you're room temperature.

Your cells start to die.

Rigor mortis begins.

Your skin becomes pale – that is, until your blood gets pulled down and makes it appear red-ish in places.

And you pee yourself.

"Are you kidding me?" I asked, my voice husky. Mary shook her head.

"No. Happens pretty much right away. Your muscles relax so much, you lose control of your bladder."

My jaw literally dropped. Lisa looked like she wanted to be sick, or at least far, far away from here. Mary always did this. She was very logical in tragedy. When our cat died, she said that at least we wouldn't have to deal with brushing it anymore (even though she said it through tears). With Dad's death, she made sure we knew that he wet the bed.

I'm a terrible person. Because you wanna know what I did?

I laughed.

"Dallas!" Lisa squawked.

"I'm sorry!" I wheezed, "but goddammit, it's _funny_ , Lis, _it is_."

"It kinda is," Mary admitted, smirking. "Dad would think it's funny. C'mon."

Lisa just shook her head, but she was biting her lip like she does when she wants to laugh. " _C'mon_ ," I prodded, and that finally got her. Mary's right – Dad wouldn't've minded. I really don't think so.

But thinking of Dad was already sobering because then I'd remember that he was upstairs, dead.

"Oh, you guys," I said through laughter, " _Dad…_ "

"I know," Mary cut in. "I know," she sighed. Lisa squeezed her eyes shut, swearing under her breath. Mary ran her hands through her wild hair. "This is so fucked up."

"We should go upstairs. We should go help Mom," Lisa said, and I knew she was right, but if I went upstairs, then this would all really be happening.

"I don't want to," I said, my voice finally starting to break. "You guys…I _can't…_ "

"Yes you can," Mary said, and wrapped her hand around my arm and forced me to follow her and Lisa upstairs, where we sat in the front room by the front door, waiting for somebody from the funeral home to come. I don't know how long we sat there, exactly, but the guys all eventually came downstairs, even Sodapop, looking morose and joining us in the front room. And Mom eventually wandered in, too, and then we were all sitting there in the silence, not saying a word because there was absolutely nothing to say. Nothing. There was nothing any of us could have said to make that situation better. Nothing at all. And I can't make it better now. I can't give you some great insight or wisdom that will make you believe that death

A knock at the door. The eight of us looked at each other. We knew who it was. Sodapop opened it.

"Hello," he said.

"Is Mrs. Mathews here?" The man asked. My mother stepped up. She looked between the man and Sodapop, and took a deep breath. I noticed the other men, holding a stretcher and an ominous black bag.

"He's upstairs, boys," she said simply, like she was inviting an old acquaintance to come in. "Follow me."

XXXXX

I'll spare you the sordid details because if we're being totally honest, the whole thing wasn't all that messy even. It was a very clinical process. The men came inside, Mom leading them upstairs to their (her?) bedroom so they could take him away. We all moved out of the front entrance so they had room, moving instead into the room just off the entrance so we could all still watch. Lisa and Pony's eyes were a bit shiny, but the entire ordeal occurred in almost complete silence. When they came back downstairs and Dad's body was loaded up to be taken to the funeral home to be…Jesus, _embalmed_ and prepared and all that shit, the man – who might've been one of the funeral directors, I don't know, don't ask – gave her some last instructions.

"I know you've already made some plans, but if you could come in within the next day and help us finalize, that would be much appreciated," he said in a low droll, his hands clasped in front of him. A funeral director's tone – guess we have our answer, then. "What you'd like him to be buried in, etc. We're very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Mathews."

Mom gave him a sharp nod. "Thank you. I'll be in."

With that, the funeral director gave her a tight smile, and left with my father's body. The door's slam echoed throughout the house. Mom closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then reopened them. "Alright," she sighed.

"That has to be the worst job on the planet," Pony mumbled.

"Someone's gotta do it, though," Darry sighed, running a hand down his face. Steve had his head in his hands and was running his hands through his sorta-thick hair, and Soda was standing close to Mom still. He hadn't left her side except when they'd all gone upstairs.

"Alright," Mom said again, "well, we have things to do."

XXXXX

We all had a task to complete. There was no time to sit and twiddle our thumbs. Death demands our attention and time.

The entire family was coming out to New York. Darry and Steve were in charge of rounding up the family and friends down in Tulsa (Evie apparently, once she heard, immediately bought a plane ticket and was already on her way up). Pony was notifying everyone in Chicago, so basically just his family and his kids' families. Mary and Lisa were calling everyone in New York. Mom and Sodapop were taking care of all the paperwork and the details of the funeral.

And I had to tell Sam.

"Grampa died last night," I told him gently, not knowing how else to say it.

Sammy hung his head a bit. He held his hands in his laps and didn't say anything. That's what I was afraid of – when his mother left, he didn't speak for a month. Mom and Dad saw him in that time, and it had worried them. It had worried _me_. It was a tough time. But when I told him that Dad died, he just wrapped his arms around my neck and sat in my lap for a while, and it was such a sweet gesture that I had to try real hard not to start bawling right then and there.

And there was one more thing, too.

"Dallas, I need to talk to you."

Mom came into the living room from the kitchen like a whirlwind, hair flying everywhere. Since Dad's body had left the house, she had been busy with planning everything, and my mother is an all-in planner. She didn't look at me, was instead reading through some papers when she said, "Dallas, I need you to write your father's eulogy."

That's when she looked up at me, her eyes imploring. I took a deep breath.

"Yeah, Mama. I can write Dad's eulogy."

XXXXX

"I can't write Dad's eulogy."

Lisa shrugged. I watched her eat – for someone so skinny, she could sure pack it away. "Sure you can. It's either you or Pony, and Uncle Pony would _definitely_ cry if he had to do it. And that would just be embarrassing."

"I dunno, it _is_ a funeral."

"Yeah, well, I think we'd all appreciate a little decorum, wouldn't you agree?"

Lisa raised an eyebrow at me, and I just sighed. "It's kinda late for dinner, ya know." And it was – past ten. But no one but Sam was asleep right now, anyways. Our mother and our uncles had taken up residence in the dining room, taking calls and stressing over paperwork and what exactly Dad was gonna wear (the military uniform or a suit? Not like his service was that important to him anyway…); how many people were gonna be there and if we could all cram into that tiny old church down the street. Mary was working on getting her family up from DC. James was being a dick, I guess. What's new?

"I know," she said through a mouthful of food. "But whatever. I'm hungry, I eat. Time is an illusion."

"Time is not an illusion," I grumbled. "It's a useful measurement."

"It's an illusion," she repeated. "It's all fake. That's what you should put in your eulogy – time isn't real, so somewhere, Dad's alive."

"Dad's alive somewhere because time _is_ real," I argued. "Because it runs in a straight line. Somewhere in the universe, it's…it's 1967 and that version of Mom and Dad are on a date, and Dad will crack a bunch of bad jokes and try to make her laugh, and then he'll go out with his buddies that night, and then stumble home late and Grandma – who's alive somewhere, too – will scold him for being too loud, and…"

"And you've sure put a lot of thought into that," she said. "Look, Dallas – say what you want to say about Dad. You're the best one to do this. You like to talk at people, and you knew him real well, and the two of you were just best buds. Just say whatever comes to mind."

Lisa shrugged again like it was easy, but it _wasn't._ Lisa wasn't a writer. She was a fuckin' dancer.

Mom used to sing all the time. And I mean _all the time_. That, or she was playing on the upright in the front room. It was music all the time, always in the house. And that was completely her doing, not Dad's. Unfortunately, I didn't exactly inherit any of Mom's gifts. I could play a little, but I'm pretty much all Dad. But Mary and Lisa did. They can both play piano, and Lisa was…well. We call Mary a prima donna in jest, but that's really Lisa's title. She's the ballerina. Seriously.

Yeah. My sister's a fucking _ballerina._

Let's talk about that for a minute.

I've said before that Mom instilled in us this idea that if we wanted something, it was out there for us to take. I don't think she quite understood my ambitions, but I guess she was just glad I had them. And I'm sure she thought that my wanting to be a Yankee was pretty ridiculous, but hey – crazier things have happened (as you all know, I didn't become a Yankee. But maybe I could've been. My father's father _was_ a minor leaguer, after all. It's in my blood). And I've said before that Lisa practically _lived_ in tutus growing up, but she seriously did, and growing up with the mother we had – the singing and dancing actress who'd gone on scholarship to Julliard – it was no surprise that Lisa sorta followed in her footsteps, and Mom made sure she got in. (Legacy status sure does help.) And so Lisa worked her way through the ranks until she became a member of the New York Ballet and had the grossest feet in the tri-state area. Mom and Dad went to her shows all the time, even if Dad could barely stay awake through them. ("At least they _talk_ in musicals.")

Anyway, I know I sound dismissive, but Lisa doesn't fucking get it.

"Right," I sighed. "You doin' okay?"

She shook her head. "No," she said easily. "I mean, I sat with Dad's body this morning, and he's not around anymore cuz he's dead and it sucks. So I'm not okay. You?"

I chuckled. "Yeah, I'm not doin' so great, either."

"None of us are. It's okay," she whispered.

But it wasn't okay. Because for the life of me, I couldn't find a single thing to say about my father.

XXXXX

 **AN: I'm sorry, guys. But you knew it was coming.**

 **Thanks for reading :)**


	16. Funeral for a Friend

**Author's Note: Hey! I hate finals week. That's about all I've got to say.**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

I remember one time when I was really, really little, some kid pushed me off a swing. And I was crying and all that shit, and it hurt and I was surprised and had no control over myself. And I remember a pair of strong hands picking me up and settling me on their hip.

"Helluva cut," my Dad grinned. "Oughta teach that li'l' bastard a lesson."

Mom used to scold Dad about cussin' in front of us kids. But cussing was just part of the package that was Dad.

"Yeah," I moaned. "Yeah, teach 'im a lesson."

Dad laughed. "One day, kid. You an' me will."

Unfortunately, we never did. But he carried me home and made funny faces at me to make me feel better. And it worked.

XXXXX

Evie arrived before anyone else.

She walked right past her husband and to my mother, wrapping her arms around her with more strength than a sixty-something-year-old woman should have. Mom melted into her. They shared a conversation in hushed tones. Mom just nodded her head a lot. She really hadn't been saying much. Nothing that wasn't necessary. Everything she said had a purpose, mostly having to do with funeral plans. Sodapop had taken over fixing dinner ("Wonder if he'll dye the pasta green," Lisa cracked, making both me and Mary smile). And now, we were just waiting. Dad died on a Wednesday, and the visitation was on Friday, and the funeral was Saturday. Tonight was Thursday. I needed to get this eulogy done before tomorrow night's visitation.

This _fucking_ eulogy.

I've had to do a lot of writing in my career, most of it pretty difficult. Or, at the very least, long. This only needed to be a few minutes, but it was turning out to be a raging pain in my ass. And everybody seemed to have something to say about it. They all had something they wanted me to add. Well goddammit, if they all had so much to say about Dad, they could write their own fucking eulogies for him. So for two days, I sat in the front room, hunched over the desk, mostly staring at blank pages while everyone around me was fussing with getting everything from the vigil to the funeral finalized. Mom went to the funeral home with Sodapop and Evie. Lisa and Mary played with Sam. And the rest of Dad's buddies did what they could. Pony in particular seemed to want to help _me_ , even if I didn't want his help in return.

(I realize now how unfair that is. How Ponyboy had looked up to my father as much as I had. How he was hurting, too.)

"What do you think you're gonna say?" Pony asked softly, as soft as the dim lighting. I just shrugged.

"I don't know," I whispered. "Whatever I do say, it's not gonna be enough."

"It's never enough. Hell, kid, I wrote a whole _book_ , and it still ain't ever gonna be enough. There's never enough time, and you always forget something, and you're not far enough away from all this yet that you can have any sort of perspective on him. But we can't wait – he won't keep." I smirked. "So trust me, Dal, whatever you say is gonna be good."

"Yeah," I breathed. "I hope so."

XXXXX

"I forget how this works."

It wasn't like we hadn't been to funerals. We'd had three grandparents die. But even then, we weren't really at the center of the mourning – our parents had been. Now it was our parent that had died, and we were going to have to get used to the idea that we were going to be the centers of attention. Mom stepped over and straightened my tie.

"Well," she began, "it's not that complicated, really. We're all just going to be here together. We'll eat and talk and just…visit," Mom said simply, giving us a short nod.

"It's a helluva lot easier than whatever tomorrow's gonna be," Lisa mumbled, and Mary nodded. Mom looked like she wanted to agree, but she just sighed.

"Look, Mom, is it okay if I find someplace quiet?" I asked. "Sam's gonna get worn out, and I have to finish this eulogy for tonight…"

Mom suddenly looked a bit pissed off. "Dallas, _no_. It's _your_ fault if that eulogy isn't finished. And we're supposed to be here for each other. This isn't just about us and it isn't just about your father. You're staying. If Sam passes out, there's a room we can put him in. So take a deep breath, Dallas, because you're not _hiding_." Mom left our sides then, and went over to talk to the funeral director about something as people slowly started to file in. Mary poked my side.

"You've finished that eulogy, haven't you?" She asked, and I bowed my head. "I knew it. You just wanna get out of this."

"Dick move, sir."

"Yeah, yeah," I sighed, testy. "Don't tell me you don't wanna get outta here, too."

They both _said_ no, but their expressions told me that was bullshit.

Alright then.

It's time for you to meet the family.

For a while, we just sorta stood by the casket, Mom standing the closest to Dad, then Mary, then me, then Lisa. Sam was running around…somewhere. I think he was with his cousins. James was in charge of them, and most certainly in over his head with the four of them. So we stood there, everyone filing in to give us their condolences and all that good shit before they got to mingle and try to ignore the dead body at the front of the room.

The first person I saw was Lee.

You know Lee. He's Darry and Jackie's oldest, and he and I, we're tight. He saw me and completely left his family behind to march over, skip right past Lisa, and get me in a bear hug.

"Aw, man, it's good to see you," he said, putting me at a distance. "I'm sorry, man, how've you been?"

I glanced at Lisa out of the corner of my eye, and she crossed her eyes at me. She was with Joan, one of Darry's daughters. Joan was interesting bird. She'd been wild and funny as a kid, and she wasn't a think like Martha, her older sister and Darry's middle child.

"I've been better," I told him honestly, trying to smile. "You?"

Lee shook his head. "Man, this is the worst," he sighed. And I completely agreed.

"Lee Curtis, sweetheart, is that you?" My mother asked, and Lee clapped me on the shoulder, forgetting me to hug my big sister (he lingered, he lingered, _he_ lingered) and mother, both of who looked very happy to see him. (On a confidential note, Mary had a huge crush on Lee growing up. She'd kept it pretty quiet, and she and Lee had been totally different beasts when they were growing up. Lee was Mr. Football, and Mary was quiet and grunge and liked her piano. He eventually found out, but Tulsa to New York is kinda a long way. It'd never work out. But if you ask me, even though they're married now and have families of their own, they're sorta carrying a torch for each other.)

Everyone had their own agendas these days. The guys were already here, and their wives had come over early, too, but their kids and grandkids came when they could. They were no longer the units I remember them being. So after Lee and Joan showed up, we had to wait a while. It was a bunch of people that my parents knew from work or the bar, or they were couple friends or whatever. It was weird how many people were in their lives that I didn't know, but Mom had deemed them important enough to want them there.

Throughout the night, I managed to at least briefly speak to Lee and Martha and Joan and Francine and Annette and Vincent and Tom and John and Mike. I didn't much care to speak to their families, awful as that sounds. I really only wanted to talk to them, my family, the ones who knew my father like I did. Not their spouses and their young children who didn't know a thing about them. I wanted to hear _their_ stories, remember with them, because they really knew him and I could continue to piece together a fuller picture of him.

I know that's selfish. I know they were all sad, too. But I felt like I had a little right to be selfish.

Lisa and Joan cornered me at one point. I was talking to one of Mom and Dad's friends – don't remember his name – on one of those fancy-looking couches these places always seem to have, and they came up to me.

"Mind if we steal Dallas away for a minute, Mr. Fisher?" Lisa asked, sweet and pleasant and charm turned up to eleven.

"Not at all, sweetheart. It's good to see you, honey, it's been so long," the man said, and Lisa hugged him like they were old, old friends. After they'd exchanged pleasantries, I cocked an eyebrow at her, asking for an explanation.

"Jim Fisher," she said. "The husband of one of Mom's DAR friends."

"Oh. Hey, Joan," I greeted.

"Hey, Dally."

"What're you two crazy kids up to?" I asked, and they both crowded in.

"We just saw something _very_ interestin'," Joan drawled.

"Very," Lisa agreed, a half smile on her face, which seemed inappropriate with our father's dead body in such close proximity.

"And what would that be?" I asked. They seemed to lean in even closer.

"I just saw _my_ big brother with _your_ big sister alone in the kitchen."

" _Kissing_ ," Lisa tacked on. My eyes went wide.

" _What?_ " I sputtered. "Kissing?" I said, and they both shushed me.

"Careful!" Joan scolded, eyes shifty. "Their families could be nearby."

"Were they really?" I whispered, and they both nodded.

"I _knew_ she still liked him," Lisa said, mainly to Joan, sounding completely vindicated. "I knew it. I just knew it."

"He hadn't talked about it all in years," Joan said. "Until all of this with your dad. Then it was like he couldn't stop talking about Mary Mathews to save his life!"

"Mary _Williams_ ," Lisa corrected, and they both snorted with laughter. I didn't quite see how this was funny.

"They're both married, ya know," I said. "They have _families_." I mean, I guess this was sorta a sore topic for me. But at the same time, I was insanely curious.

Joan and Lisa both rolled their eyes. "Oh, Dallas," Joan tisked. "You naïve male. After this weekend, Lee will go back to Tulsa and Mary will go back to DC and everything will go back to normal."

No it won't, I wanted to say. And not just because Dad was dead. Because now I knew I was right, too, and that Lee and Mary still had something between them and that maybe we had all been right to be so quick to poke fun at James – or, maybe not. I dunno. But I do know that Mary and Lee were both grown up and married and had children and they had been kissing each other at my father's visitation in the kitchen of a funeral home. And I would know this forever, the five of us, we would always know that Mary and Lee had been making out in the kitchen at the funeral home where my father's body was.

"Oh my _god_ ," I laughed, my voice wheezy. "Oh my _fucking god_."

(That was the highlight of my night, to say the least. I was stupid enough to ask Mary about it all later, after the visitation. But she wasn't mad. She just sighed and got a sort of sad, dreamy look on her face.

"Nothing will ever come of it. We're grown up now. We have…responsibilities. And he lives hundreds of miles away. I guess it's for the best."

"But was it…was it nice?" I wondered. Mary smirked for a fleeting moment.

"Yeah," she admitted. "I guess it was. But…it's over now."

Not entirely true. I knew there would always be a piece of Mary Mathews that would be in love with Lee Curtis.)

In the Catholic faith, you don't give eulogies the day of the funeral. Big no-no. You give it at the visitation – or vigil, or whatever (why the fuck did Dad do this?) It's cool. And I had it done. Mom was right – I'd wanted to hide. But there was no hiding now. The priest had gathered us all together, and suddenly, my mother was nudging me out of my seat and I was robotically walking to the front, papers in hand, my heartbeat thrumming in my ears.

Standing at the front of that funeral home in front of my father's casket, staring out at my family and all our friends, my mother's eyes resting softly on me with a kind smile on her face (she was prepared, she'd always been prepared, she'd seen this coming, she was the strong one), I got the strange feeling that Dad had asked me to do this for a reason. And that reason is that he's an asshole. I sighed and looked down at what I'd written, the words staring back up at me, and then made the decision to wing it. What I'd written wasn't enough. This wasn't a lecture hall or conference – this was my _Dad_ , and he was dead.

"Hello," I breathed, and a few people chorused back with the greeting. I was really at the pulpit now, boys. "Uh. I'd like to thank you all for…for coming today. Um. My father, he, uh…he asked me to give his eulogy." I laughed. "And…I wrote one. It's right here" – I held it up – "but now that I think about it…there's not a thing in there that I want to say." Mary and Lisa looked at me like I was losing it. Mom was still calm. "Nothing that I wrote down will ever convey to all of you just how much he meant to me…to all of us, really." I thought back to one of those last nights, sitting in a chair by his side and frantically scribbling, both of us laughing and crying at the same time. I smirked. "Instead, I think I'd like to tell you all a story. Over the past couple weeks that I've been back home, Dad and I…we sorta started this _project_. So over the past several days, I've been writing down pretty much every story I've heard being told. By him, by my mother, Dad's friends." I briefly looked over at Darry, Steve, Soda, and Pony, who were all sitting together a row behind my family, all looking at me with what I suspected was all the love in the world. I had their approval. And that's what I'd wanted. "And…I think this was my favorite one…."

 _1965_

 _There are seven of them._

 _There are seven of them, and they're all making their way to the baseball diamond. Crutchfield Park. Summer home of Tulsa's east side little leaguers. The late summer sun is about to absolutely bake them, and they're going for a change of pace. Usually, the seven of them spend their summer evenings in an old abandoned lot, tossing around a football. Not tonight._

 _The oldest boy is Darry. He's nineteen years old and he's the most optimistic he's going to be for a long time. He and his good buddy, Two-Bit, are walking side-by-side as they lead the group. The others are behind them – Dallas, Steve, Sodapop, Johnny, and Ponyboy are all trailing along, goofing around. Dallas is bitching about something or other, and Johnny is listening with rapt attention. Sodapop and Steve are arranging a double date for the next night. Ponyboy is just glad to be allowed to tag along with his older brothers and their friends, trailing right alongside Johnny._

 _They get to the diamond. Steve has a bat in hand. Darry and Two-Bit both have their gloves and a bucket of baseballs are sitting next to Darry on the pitcher's mound. Both of their days of playing baseball are over, but Darry's still got a great arm thanks to years of football, and Two-Bit should've still been the starting catcher for the Ropers, being the best catcher in town and all. The guys are all gathered around Darry at the pitcher's mound as he gives instructions._

 _"_ _So y'all don't think we can strike you out, huh?" Darry asks._

 _"_ _Hell no," Steve drawls, cocky. "It's been five years, Superman. Don't think you've got it anymore."_

 _"_ _And Two-Bit played with a different pitcher the last few years," Soda adds. "Maybe he don't know your game as well anymore."_

 _Darry and Two-Bit briefly look at each other and shake their heads, Two-Bit chuckling at the thought._

 _"_ _Guess that's what we're here to find out," Two-Bit says cheerfully. "Here's how it's gonna go boys – Darry's gonna stand right here on this here mound, I'm gonna be right there behind home, and you're gonna try and get a hit off."_

 _"_ _What happens if we do?" Steve asks, glancing at Dallas. Two-Bit considers it._

 _"_ _Whaddya think, Darrel?"_

 _"_ _Well," he begins, "it has to be a fair hit, for starts. No fouls. If it happens – and that's a big if, fellas – then you're all welcome to the next kegger."_

 _Oh, this was quite the invitation! Darry didn't usually let his football buddies and his other pals mingle. Two-Bit came close, but they still held a disdain for him. Darry either didn't notice or didn't know what to do about it. This was a big deal for sure. Even Dallas's curiosity was piqued._

 _"_ _And if it don't happen?" Soda asks, ready to challenge his big brother. Two-Bit and Darry silently confer once again._

 _"_ _If it don't," Two-Bit drawled, "then y'all gotta make the Run."_

 _Instant silence. The five boys paled, and Darry and Two-Bit looked pleased. The Run was a form of punishment devised by the two older boys when they were all young, and it was a fate worse than eternal damnation. At ages fourteen and twelve, to pull rank on the other boys, it had been formed as more of a threat than anything else. Darry mainly used it to threaten his brothers when they were bugging him (especially Sodapop, who did most of the bugging), and Two-Bit whipped it out pretty much every time he saw the need. So…a lot. Basically, the Run forced those being subjected to it to strip down completely and run through the streets bare naked while Two-Bit and Darry sped after them in one of their trucks, nipping at their heels (pop-its optional), from the Curtis' house to the creek. It would have to be full dark of course so none of them got arrested for something THIS stupid, so performing the Run also meant that the older boys would be subjecting them to this in the middle of the night. Once the creek was reached, the streakers would have to jump in from off the bridge, which was right over a deep point, so nobody was gonna break their necks or anything, but it sure was cold._

 _It was still out to jury whether this was all cruel and unusual, but it had never happened before anyways, so…_

 _"_ _Man, that's bullshit," Dally spat. "You're nuts if you think I'm gonna do that."_

 _Darry shrugged. "Then you better fuckin' knock one outta the park, Winston."_

 _From that point, it's game on. Challenge accepted. Except, seems the five younger boys have underestimated their buddies, cuz none of them can get a hit off. Not a fair one, at least. Or they're whiffing it. Frankly, it's embarrassing, and Two-Bit's laughing his ass off, which just…which just sucks._

 _Dallas didn't hit it._

 _Soda hit two fouls and then proceeded to get struck out._

 _Johnny and Steve struck out, too._

 _Before long, it was just Ponyboy left. Steve rolled his eyes – there was no way in hell. The four boys were mentally preparing themselves to strip down and plunge themselves into the icy waters as Pony timidly stepped up to the plate. Two-Bit taunted him as Darry got himself ready._

 _"_ _Alright, you li'l' shit," he grinned, "get ready. Get ready, kiddo, cuz these're comin' fast 'n' hard!"_

 _"_ _Cram it, Two-Bit," Pony spat, shouldering the bat. Two-Bit starts whistling "Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin'" like he's Alfred Drake himself, and it's annoyingly fitting, even though the sun is setting. Pony is nervous as he watches his lunk of a brother wind up –_

 _And the first one goes right past him._

 _"_ _See?" Two-Bit wheedles. "It ain't gonna happen, kid."_

 _But it does._

 _It does happen._

 _Ponyboy Curtis gets so pissed off, he smacks the ball out of the park._

 _Right over all their heads._

 _Sorry to be anticlimactic, but that was exactly what happened._

 _While Sodapop is whooping and hollering and Steve and Dallas are letting out sighs of relief and Johnny pats his buddy on the back, Two-Bit and Darry are staring off into the distance to where the ball had disappeared, both a bit stunned._

 _"_ _That twerp," Darry shakes his head. "Dammit. Mom and Dad are gonna kill me if I take him to a goddamn kegger."_

 _Two-Bit just chuckles and pats his friend on the back. "Oh, Darrel," he sighs. "You gave that one to 'im, and you know it."_

 _Darry glares at his friend, and Two-Bit just cocks an eyebrow. That was Two-Bit Mathews for you – not a thing got past him, and he was always right about people. And then he'd waltz off, whistling "The Surrey with the Fringe On Top", and you'd be mad at him for a moment, but you sure wouldn't be able to stay that way. Cuz the next minute, he's offering to buy you a beer and he's telling you all about his latest conquest and there's no room to be mad at him anymore. And you'll start singing the score with him._

When I finish, my uncles are smiling like I just gave my acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize. Mom is smiling, too, but she's let a few tears slip down her cheeks. And my sisters just keep staring at me with funny looks on their faces _,_ but smiling. My entire family is just _beaming_ , and I'd gotten the crowd to laugh, which I think was a good sign – this was Two-Bit Mathews' funeral, after all, and I imagine that's what he would've wanted. I cleared my throat to speak one last time, a lump growing there that hadn't been there before.

"I miss my Dad," I garbled, smiling through it but still crying. Sammy shot me a concerned and nervous look, but Rose settled him.

"We do, too," Uncle Pony spoke up, and everyone in the room nodded. I laughed, not really knowing why, and sat back down.

"That was perfect," my mother whispered as the priest began again. I tried to smile.

"Thanks. Hope it's okay I went off-script."

Mom smiled softly at me. "Of course, honey. He would've really loved it, I know he would have."

I nodded and sat back between my sisters, both staring at me. I didn't really hear the rest of the service, but I'm sure everything that was said was nice or beautiful or good or accurate. At one point, I realized my sisters were holding my hands.

Just an unspoken little thing.

XXXXX

It was the big day.

The house was quiet. We all shuffled around each other, not knowing what to say. But we had to get an early start. I showered first. Forced myself to eat so I didn't pass out from a low in the middle of all this and embarrass the shit out of my family. Then I got Sammy dressed. Then put on the suit I wore to church that one Sunday. And then I remembered something. As I was headed upstairs, Soda and Steve were coming down.

"Woah, kiddo," Soda said, "Where you headed? It's 'bout time to go."

"I need to grab the stuff," I said, a man on a mission.

"What stuff?" Steve and Soda asked, in unison. I smiled for real for the first time that day.

"Just a couple things Dad wanted to go down with 'im. C'mon, I'll show ya."

I led them into the closet, and started digging in my father's drawers. Looking for something. When my fingers hit what I was looking for, my stomach dropped. I didn't want to pull them out, because then it would really be real. I pulled the two pictures out, the (ugh… _naked_ ) one of Mom and the one of me, Lisa, and Mary when we were kids. I held them out to Steve. "He wanted to be buried with these," I told him. Soda looked on somberly as Steve examined them. I was surprised to see that he was grinning.

"I forgot how beautiful your mother was," Soda mused. "She was a real looker." That caught me by surprise. I raised an eyebrow at him, as if to ask if he was serious. Soda just grinned. "No worries - I wasn't gonna take your ma from your dad."

Steve stuck his bottom lip out and shrugged. "Guess you could now, if ya really wanted to. She's a widow, and you're…well..." Soda smacked the back of his head. Steve sighed. "Anyways. He wants to be buried with these?"

I nodded. "Yeah, that's what he told me. He said just slip 'em in his pocket before...ya know..."

"I got it, Dallas," Steve cut in, sparing me the upset. I was grateful.

"How 'bout you go collect your mother?" Soda suggested.

I nodded. Then I left the closet, left the two of them alone to be with each other.

XXXXX

We all walked to the church, where the funeral home had already left the casket. The nine of us just stood there with him (it?) while we waited.

"It's closed," Pony observed.

"It was open last night," Steve said.

I didn't even want to think about last night.

I didn't even want to be here.

XXXXX

Mom sat in the aisle.

Mom sat in the aisle, Mary next to her, me next to Mary, and Lisa next to me. Sam sat behind us with Aunt Rose. Aunt Sadie and her husband were up in the front pew, too, to Lisa's left. James was there, too, of course, with their kids. It was always funny seeing Lisa and Sadie together because of how much they looked alike. Sadie had even commented on it when she arrived.

 _"_ _Where's my doppelganger?" She'd asked, with the same easygoing humor that Dad had, smiling even though her brother had died and she hadn't gotten the chance to say goodbye. "Lisa, darlin', you sure did get all the good Mathews genes."_

It was enough to make me smile a bit to myself through my nerves and grief.

"Kid."

I felt a squeeze on my shoulder. Steve and Pony – the most unlikely of teams – were looking at me when I turned around. Darry, Soda, Steve, and Pony were all sitting together on one end, with their wives and Sammy sitting on the other end.

"Yeah?" I whispered.

"You okay to do this?" Steve asked.

"'Course."

"You sure?" Pony pressed. "If you need me to step in –"

"I've got this, guys," I insisted. "I need to do this. He asked me to. I _have_ to."

They nodded reluctantly and sat back. I looked around – the place was really packed. Seems everyone made it. I leaned over and whispered in Lisa's ear, "Half of Tulsa is in this church," and she huffed a laugh.

"Don't think you're too far off with that." She laughed again, a bit weepy, and wiped her eyes. "Ugh. The incense –"

"Quit blamin' the incense. Don't bullshit me."

Lisa and I stared at each other for a moment before she sighed and shrugged her shoulders, giving me a small smile.

Look. This was a funeral. You know how funerals go. I wish I could tell you it was special in some way, but it really wasn't. There was incense and praying and all that shit that Dad never went in for (but his sister did…) and my mother was already stepping into the role of dignified widow. You don't need to know all the detail about how me and Tony and Dad's buddies had to load the casket into the hearse. You don't need to hear about how all the cars on the way to the cemetery pulled over for us. You know how a funeral goes, and I'm sorry to say that this one wasn't special in any way. We prayed over the body and the priest said a bunch of stuff, and Aunt Sadie crossed herself a lot.

What _was_ weird was that once we got to the cemetery, Mom checked out.

Aunt Evie had her arm wrapped around Mom the entire time. Mom had held it together really well so far, from the time she'd woken up next to my father's body, to breaking the news and getting his body removed, to planning this thing and accepting everyone's condolences, to the church service and the eulogy and the prayers. She'd coasted along until now. Now, she couldn't bear to watch. Her eyes were shut, jaw clenched, tears spilling out but not really, truly crying. She was still trying to keep it together.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

Lisa hiccupped a sob beside me, and I glanced down at her. I squeezed her hand. Sammy suddenly felt like an anvil in my arms. When it was all said and done for, when everyone else had left, the four of us and Dad's buddies and our aunts hung around to watch him go down, Mom still refusing to look, Sodapop having now taken Evie's place as the person she was clinging to. The groundskeepers did their jobs and let us watch, all of us knowing not to say a word. We needed to get back to the house because that's where everyone was headed, with all their casserole dishes and other assorted funeral foods, but we weren't ready just yet. I knew I wasn't. I couldn't leave him. Didn't want to leave him. I could stand guard here, with Sammy weighing me down like the world on Atlas's shoulders and Lisa squeezing my hand so hard that it was going numb, for eternity. I could've stayed there with him for an eternity.

"C'mon," Darry finally said (Darry, master of funerals and the handling of death), Jackie on his arm, "we should probably get back." And only because he was Dad's oldest friend did any of us let him get away with saying a word.

So we left.

And that was it.

XXXXX

"Oh, it's not like he left much of anything. At least, not anything important. Plenty of pairs of dirty socks, though. Hell, I'll still be washing his socks for another month."

Mom slumped down onto the couch. I knew what she was getting at. Even something stupid like socks would remind her of him, probably for a very long time. Mary wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

"It's okay, Mom," she said shakily. "It'll be okay."

Mom just nodded, like she was agreeing. But she didn't look so sure to me. I wanted to cross the room and give her a hug, but I was scared to. Maybe because this was the woman who knew Dad in the most intimate way, the one who probably knew him best, and she was a true link to all the parts of him I never got to know. The house was fuller than it had been before, with all of the kids and the kids' kids and relatives here. Tony and Odette were here. It was too much, and god, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't fucking breathe with all of them stuffed in here.

"I'm gonna go get something from my room," I said suddenly. Everyone just nodded, and I left.

I wasn't going to my room, though. I went up to theirs, to Mom and Dad's.

" _All the good stuff is in the closet,"_ Dad had said. _"Lookin' for photo albums? Closet. Something terribly out of style? Closet. Birth certificates? Closet."_

All the good stuff is in the closet. I laughed to myself; it was such a…such a _Dad_ thing to say.

I peeled off my jacket and threw it on the bed. The closet light was still on from when me, Steve, and Sodapop were in there this morning. Everything the same. I tried to look for traces of Dad, something to remind me of him. And I did find lots of things - his shirts were still hanging up, his pants still folded in the drawers, and - like Mom said - a helluva lot of socks strewn all over the place. Even the crappy shag carpeting reminded me of him somehow. But it wasn't very substantial. I guess I was looking for a message: a photo hidden in something, a final goodbye in the form of a note or a letter or engraved in an Etch-a-Sketch.

But I couldn't find anything. There was nothing left but his clothes, some of his records. There was a box with his watch and a few other things like that. Mom had kept his wedding ring. That's the one thing she knew for sure she wanted to keep. Like how Jackie Kennedy kept a lock of JFK's hair. Something to remember the man by.

Unfortunately, my father was no John Kennedy, and there wasn't a whole lot of substance to what he left behind. I just wanted something more than a shirt.

"Dallas?"

I looked up. I hadn't even noticed that anyone was coming up here, or that I'd sunk to the floor. I was just sitting on the shag, staring up at my wonderful, widowed mother. She'd taken the veil off her head and was holding it in her hands. She'd probably come upstairs to put it away. But she was still a mournful image in black, from her heels to her jewelry to her hair.

"Hey, Mama," I greeted. My voice was soft but strong; unwavering. Mom stepped into the closet and put her veil in its box, then put it up on the shelf again. She straightened up a few things.

"What're you doing in here?" She asked, sounding concerned. "Everyone's wondering what's taking you so long. Did you get what you needed from your room?"

I grimaced. "I've been here the whole time," I told her.

"Why?"

I remembered a moment from my very early childhood: Mom and Dad had been fighting about something or other – it happened from time to time. Usually, they kept it on the down-low, hisses and whispers and conversations behind closed doors, but this one was a blowout. I really can't tell you what it was about, but Lisa had just been born, so I was pretty little. And I hid. I crawled into the cabinet under the bathroom sink and cried quietly because what else does a kid do? Mom later found me sitting under there, and she sat on the floor so she could see me.

 _"_ _You okay?"_

 _"_ _No."_

 _"_ _Alright then, Dallas honey. You stay under there as long as you need to. Just keep the cabinet open."_

"I was looking for something."

"What were you looking for?"

I sighed, not knowing how to explain. " _Something_ ," I said lamely.

Mom seemed to understand. She rolled her eyes to the ceiling as if trying to look at her late husband and ask, _See what you've left me with? I can't handle this boy alone, Keith._ "Something," she repeated. "Like a hidden message."

"Yes."

"Honey, this is your father we're talking about. How premeditated do you really believe his thinking was?"

"True," I muttered. "Just pisses me off."

My mother laughed. "I know. You just dig a little too deep sometimes, Dallas. Just your nature. Honestly, I thought you'd struck gold right after your graduation - remember?" I nodded. I definitely remembered. "I thought you'd got all you needed to know about our family. Guess not, huh?"

I shook my head this time.

"Guess we can blame your grandfather for that, can't we?" Mom intoned.

It was true. The second-best storyteller in my (biological) family had been my mother's father, a history professor, and he told me all he knew about history. And that was a lot. My sisters hated those stories. I loved them. Who wouldn't want to hear about wars and battles and protests and gallant men and women? I certainly don't know why someone wouldn't. I mean, kinda sounds like our family's stories, if you think about it.

"What are we supposed to do now?" I asked quietly.

Mom sorta smiled. Mom could, at the very least, _sorta_ smile in every situation, no matter how horrible. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse could show up on our porch and she would _sorta_ smile and maybe offer them glasses of iced tea. (But here's the difference between her and my father – Dad would've opened that door up, smiled like his life depended on it, and told them to fuck off.) Mom sat beside me. She sighed and folded her hands.

"Well," she began, no-nonsense, "we'll be sad for a while. This isn't the first death in the family, Dallas, and it certainly won't be the last. So we'll be sad, but while we're feeling that way, we'll carry on. We'll keep on with our lives even though they're going to be…different." She smiled again, bigger this time, and when she spoke her voice was softer, more wistful. "I am going to miss your father. I am. I _do_. But that doesn't mean I get to stop and wait for what happened to him to happen to me. I still have you. I still have Mary and Lisa. There are still many people in my life." Mom shook her head. "But I understand, you not knowing what to do next. I understand it perfectly. Two-Bit Mathews has been in my life for about fifty years. I've seen him almost _every day_. You think it's going to be easy for me, waking up and expecting him to be there, and then realizing I'm _alone?_ It won't be. It won't be easy for _any_ of us. But that doesn't mean we get to quit. We find things to keep us rooted to the earth, honey. That's what we do."

Mom shrugged. Fifty years. Like I've said – my parents really loved each other. The only time they were ever apart was when my Mom was in college, and Dad was in Vietnam. They weren't really _together_ in that time, but in a way, they were. They'd known each other since high school. That's how long they lasted. But, that would suggest they're over, and I suspect they're not. I don't think they really can be, not with Mom still around. I guess it's that clichéd idea that the dead continue to live through us – that if we're around, they can never truly be gone. Hell, I'm named after a guy that's been dead for half a century. So's one of Pony's kids. Like some sort of legacy. Like they're _sorta_ still here.

But that still meant that no matter how hard I _imagined_ Dad walking through the door and boisterously announcing his presence, the way he did for thirty or so years, it can't happen. Because he's dead.

"I'm so sorry, Mama. I know how much you loved him."

Mom inhaled sharply, her eyes filling up a bit, but she nodded, still smiling. "I did," she whispered. "Sometimes, over the years, I…I _forgot_ how much I did. And then it would hit me all at once. But don't be sorry, honey."

I shifted so I could be closer to her. "Dad said that the reason you broke up with him was because you were scared he was going to die over in Vietnam. But now…how…how are you even beginning to handle this right now?"

Mom put a hand to my cheek, and I couldn't help leaning into her touch. "I've got you, honey. And you're _exactly_ like him."

"That doesn't make it worse?" I whispered.

"Oh, it does. But it'll be a good thing in the long run." Mom pressed a kiss to my temple. "I love you, Dallas. Now come get something to eat."

XXXXX

They don't tell you how much energy it takes to mourn. They don't tell you that all that crying and running around and thinking about that person just wears you out. This whole process had worn me out more than the hardest of baseball practices I'd done as a kid. It had worn me down worse than writing my dissertation to get my PhD had. So when Mom told me to eat, I ate. I joined the family downstairs – who was left, which was my family and the guys, and Tony and Odette – and ate the food Mom put in front of me. I think it was good. I didn't really taste it. I could hear everyone talking around me. Jokes about the abundance of food. Mentions of how many lasagnas my grandmother had brought the Curtises when their parents had died. I could hear my mother's soft voice ask me if I was okay, and felt myself nod. I saw Sammy sitting in Soda's lap, fast asleep. I felt Tony squeeze my shoulder and say "See ya tomorrow, Dally." I could see in my periphery Mom and Odette hugging each other. I noticed that Sodapop eventually left the room and carried Sammy upstairs to put him to bed. And the sun kept sinking below the horizon until all I knew was that it was dark and that I'd eaten something and that my father was dead and that there was nothing in the world that could change that.

I eventually went to bed. I didn't bother with a shower. I robotically brushed my teeth and stared at myself in the mirror, noticing the five 'o' clock shadow but not doing anything about it. I checked my blood sugar and gave myself my insulin and thought of all the times my hands were too shaky to do it and Dad would do it for me. I noticed how much my feet hurt. The bed felt good, my feet flexing against clean sheets. Sammy was curled into a little ball and would sometimes give a little snort like a piglet and then settle back down. I thought of how you could hear Dad's snoring every night, and realized, funnily enough, that I would probably miss it. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, missing him.

I wanted to talk to him about how much I missed him, which is stupid because I wouldn't be missing him if he were here.

I kept staring at the ceiling. The house felt darker, colder than usual. I lay there and I stared at the ceiling and wondered if Dad knew we missed him. I lay there and I stared at the ceiling and wondered if Dad was somewhere better or if that really was all bullshit.

I lay there, and I stared at the ceiling, and I hoped that wherever Dad was, he wasn't lonely.

XXXXX

 **AN: Again - I'm sorry.**

 **Thanks for reading :)**


	17. VCR Memories

**Author's Note: Alright! I'm back. Finally. These last few chapters are short and sweet, really little snapshots. But they're here for a reason.**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

When all was said and done, we cleaned.

You know that feeling a house gets after a good spring cleaning? Or when someone's been sick and you finally open up all the windows and let some clean air in? It felt like that.

Obviously, my parents' room needed it the most.

I hadn't really noticed it at the time, but the room had been permeated with the smell of sick and blood, and it's a wonder either of my parents had been able to stand it. Then again, I'm sure it had been the least of their worries, certainly my father's, who was helpless against it. And Jesus, my mother has dealt with every icky, oozy, gooey, gummy, and sticky substance on the planet; while probably emotionally scarring, Dad coughing up blood and phlegm probably wasn't the most disgusting thing she'd ever dealt with, or Mary, for that matter. So the two of them threw open the windows and let in the biting autumn air and scrubbed the bathroom clean like lung cancer was catching and cleaned the comforter and the sheets. Mom cleaned out Dad's bedside drawer and put his things in a box in the closet. Speaking of the closet, Mom finished any laundry that needed to be done and straightened the whole thing up, Dad's things hanging straight and organized like they'd never been before.

When I found her and Mary in there one day, it was like I was walking in on two strangers. They were so detached from the whole thing. But I guess they needed to be in order to get the job done.

XXXXX

"There's coffee."

I nodded my thanks to Darry and grabbed some, but then I just sorta held it in my hand, not quite knowing what to do with it for some reason. I'd been doing that a lot the past couple days – I'd start with something and then forget completely what it was I was doing. I stood in the bathroom a good ten minutes the day before because I'd forgotten I'd wanted to take a shower. (Wash this grief away, watch it swirl down the drain.)

Mom and Soda were sitting out on the back porch, drinking coffee and watching the sun come up. They'd been doing that since the morning after Dad's funeral. It was a bittersweet sight. I was happy they had each other, but sad because I kept picturing Dad in Sodapop's place. And I would never be able to un-see it. Dad would always be the one I pictured next to Mom, holding her hand and kissing her temple and making her laugh.

"They'll take good care of each other," Steve spoke up from beside me. I jumped a bit, having not known he was there. I looked over at him.

"Whaddya mean?" I asked.

"Soda and your mom are good friends. They don't love each other like she and your daddy loved each other, but there's a friendship there. Since they met."

I almost thought he sounded jealous, but then I realized I was hearing something else in his voice: it was admiration. Amusement. Steve wanted Soda to take care of Mom, and Mom to take care of Sodapop. I cleared my throat as I thought of this.

"You mean, they should live together?" I asked. Steve shrugged.

"Maybe. I think it'd be good for Sodapop to get the hell outta Tulsa. It's just me and Evie anymore, and a coupl'a our kids. And Darry and Jackie. Ponyboy got the hell outta there long ago, and your mama and daddy sure as shit didn't wanna stick around, either." He eyed me warily. "What would you and your sisters think of him staying up here? With her."

I was shocked. So old Uncle Steve wanted Uncle Soda to move in with my mother! I shrugged my shoulders. "I guess," I said slowly. "If they want it. Won't you miss him?"

Steve gave me a sad smile. "'Course I will. I've known 'im too long. But I'm missin' everyone these days. If it's what's best for him, then I want him to have it."

I turned back to look at the two of them. They were talking to each other, and Mom was smiling a bit. Just enough to reach her eyes some. I wondered what he'd said to her. I wondered if they were remembering something, or if it had nothing to do with the past at all.

"I think it'll be okay," I whispered. "I think it'll be more than okay."

"Do you think your old man would approve?" Steve gave me a knowing smile. I smiled back.

"Definitely," I laughed. "I really do."

"Good." Steve pursed his lips. "I want ya to know, we all miss him. He was a right pain in the ass sometimes, but your father was a good man. The guy was practically my brother. I'll miss him," he said.

My eyes stung, but not so much because I was sad. I was a little, but I was mostly glad to hear him say that. I took a deep breath and smiled again. "Bet he woulda liked to hear ya say that," I laughed. Steve laughed, too. "Ya know the worst part?" I asked.

"What?"

"I didn't even get to really say goodbye. Ya know what the last thing I said to him was?"

"What's that?"

"I said to him, 'I'll shut off the light.' And then he just nodded, and I closed the door. That was it."

Steve shook his head. "You didn't know that was it."

"I wish I did. I could've said something more important."

"What would you even had said?" Steve drew out the question, his southern starch creeping into the statement.

I thought about it. What would I have said to him? I could've thanked him. I could've thanked him for being my dad, for being Mom's husband, for loving all of us even when we would've given him permission to hate us. But that's not who Dad was; he never really hated. Not in my life, at least. Maybe it would've been a non-sequitur, something completely out of the blue. Something we would both get. Maybe I would've said _'forty-two'_ and left it at that. Maybe I would've said _'the knife missed him by inches, and he jumped._ ' Maybe, maybe, maybe. All I'll ever have is maybe.

Maybe, just maybe, if I'd had the chance, we would've just talked. In fitting fashion to my father, we could've talked until he left. He could've been in the middle of a sentence and just let go.

"I think," I began. "That it's not so much what I said, as what he said. The last thing he said to me was, 'could ya close the door?' Well, I nodded, and that's when I said my line. He nods, too, I shut the door, and he's dead in a few hours."

Steve called Pony over. "Lemme ask you somethin', boy."

"Yeah?" Pony crossed his arms over his chest. He was watching his brother and my mom.

"How poetic is _this_ \- night Two-Bit dies, he asks Dally to close the door. Dal nods, then says he'll shut off the light, too. Dead in a few hours."

"Close the door, shut off the light." Ponyboy rubbed a hand across his mouth, and when he pulls it away, he's smiling. "You kiddin'?" He looks at me. "It's perfect. Close the door, shut off the light. Fitting last exchange."

"How is that fitting?" I wondered. Ponyboy cleared his throat, gestured for us to go sit on the couch. Steve followed.

"That's easy," Pony began. "Very symbolic, one big metaphor for death. Close the door, shut off the light. Like, close the door on my life and don't shed any more light on the thought. Don't think of death anymore after this door has closed."

He delivered this in his lecture voice, the entire thing, and he had made it terribly complex. But it made so much sense. What he was saying made sense. I doubt that's what Dad meant, but it adds to the significance. No last words are truly insignificant; in fact, no words are insignificant.

"Shut the door on my life, and don't shed any more light on the subject," I repeated. Ponyboy nodded. Steve looked impressed.

"Damn," Steve breathed. "That's real good."

He didn't even have the _decency_ to look bashful. "Ain't like I went to school for nothin'," Pony grinned.

XXXXX

I suddenly had a new mission: find out what the last thing it was Dad said to everybody.

I realize this was sorta me just dwelling on the whole matter, but it also gave me a sense of purpose. I no longer had my dad around to tell stories. But last words? Last words are everything. I sorta have an obsession with them, actually. I mean, how perfect some of them are! Oscar Wilde saying "Either the wallpaper goes or I do" and then _dying_? That's how you do it. That's really how you do it, kids. That's how you go.

Well. It's a funny way to go, that's for sure.

Anyway.

Armed with my trusty legal pad and pen, I was briefly revitalized in this darkest of hours with this new sense of purpose. I know Pony said that that I (we) shouldn't dwell, but wasn't the whole dwelling thing okay as long as I channeled it? Yeah! It sure was!

Yeah.

I found Mom in the kitchen, staring out the window. Of _course_ I had to ask her first.

"Hey, Mom." I rubbed her shoulder briefly and she smiled at me.

"Well, hey there, Dallas."

"Hey," I said again, smiling and sitting next to her. "Mama, what was the last thing Dad said to you?"

Mom narrowed her eyebrows, like she was deep in thought. "He said, 'Love you. See you in the morning." Her breath almost unnoticeably hitched. He would never see her again. He'd never see another morning again.

"That's nice," I said softly.

"Yes. I suppose it is."

In its own way, it really was. A little clichéd, I suppose, but we don't get to pick these things.

"Why?" She asked.

"Hm?" She had noticed me writing. I smiled sheepishly. "Oh. Well, I'm asking everybody the same question."

"Oh," she said, trying to play it off casually, when the matter was anything but.

I was too scared to ask Mary what the last thing Dad said to her was. Because I remember being there. I remember the whisper in her ear, the pat on the head. It all felt like a distant memory, even though it had barely been a week. This was all fresh still.

XXXXX

 ** _The Final Words of a Dying Man_**

 ** _(aka, I'm making this deeper than it all really is)_**

 _To Bridget: "Love you. See you in the morning."_

 _To Mary: TBD_

 _To Dallas: "Close the door when you go."_

 _To Lisa: "See ya tomorrow, girly-girl."_

 _To Darry: "Thanks for coming out here. Seriously, man. Thank you."_

 _To Sodapop: "I've heard some rumors. So…you look out for her, ya hear?"_

 _To Ponyboy: "Aw, you're a good kid, Pony."_

 _To Steve: "Yeah, whatever, fuckhead."_

XXXXX

"Alright, y'all – I have a surprise."

Uh-oh. Sodapop's surprises had always been pretty out-there. Not expensive, but…kinda wild. Usually had something to do with animals. But this was different because he placed a cardboard box on the coffee table, and opened it to reveal that it was full of video tapes.

"What are these, Sodapop?" Darry asked, looking at his brother like the nut he is. Sodapop shrugged happily.

"They're video tapes!" He said, stating the obvious.

"We can see that," Steve grumbled. "But what's _on_ them?"

Oh, that Sodapop Curtis. More clever than anyone ever gave him credit for. He grinned – as wide as the day is long – and said, "Bee, you still got a VCR player, don't'cha?"

And Mom certainly did. She took the tape on top and put it in the VCR player, and we all gathered around the television – the kind of television that you'd never picture playing video tapes – and Sodapop rewound it to the beginning, making sure he was blocking the screen so we couldn't see, that familiar _whirl_ sound of the tape filling the room. Then Soda sat back on his haunches and gave us all a sad look.

"Look, I…well, I know this is all still hurts and it's real fresh an' all…but hell, what I wouldn't _give_ to have this sort of stuff of Mom and Dad. Or Johnny and Dal," he added, giving his brothers and remaining buddy significant looks. "I don't even remember what they sounded like anymore, guys. At least, this way…well, I'll show ya."

I knew what it was as soon as he pressed play. Sodapop had been glued to his video camera at every function growing up. Everyone thought it was ridiculous – the adults, that is. Us kids mugged for the camera, and Sodapop encouraged us. He always was. Anything we wanted, he gave. I could see why Steve thought (no, _knew_ ) he and my mother would take good care of each other.

"Oh," Mom said in surprise. "That's – "

"Wow," Darry breathed, eyebrows raised. Pony's mouth was hung open a little bit.

"Soda," Steve mumbled, "I didn't know you brought these."

"That's why they call it a _surprise_ , you dumbass," Soda said softly, fondly. He was watching us. Not the TV. I guessed he'd watched these many times.

Ya know, I haven't thought much over the years about Uncle Sodapop, his life. He always seemed happy and easygoing, which I guess he was. I'm not saying he's lying about that. But I do think he's got his own darkness. I mean, he has to. He's had too much happen to him. I don't think I need to go into detail about what, either. None of us ever has a smooth ride. But his has been pretty bumpy. Somehow, though, he doesn't give in to that darkness. Instead, he raised his daughter on his own and he treats every living thing with respect and is holding my mother's hand while she cries, smiling through her tears, as we watch us as kids, as babies, the film old and fading and some of them without sound, but our faces their regardless. Even my father's.

XXXXX

"It's hard, ya know?" I overheard Darry say. The Final Four were sticking close to each other these days. Like a huddled mass. I felt bad for eavesdropping, but then again, not really. "Ya know a guy so long. Think he's gonna be around forever."

"Yeah," one of them sighed, so softly I couldn't tell who the voice belonged to. And here I was, thinking I'd known them so well.

XXXXX

The family all had to leave at some point.

Well, the guys weren't leaving yet. They were staying a few more days. But everyone else was.

"I'll call as soon as I'm in," Evie said to Mom and Steve, though really more to Mom. Evie had been hanging around the house a lot, and was the first to arrive and the last to leave. My mother had many friends. But it was funny to think that the woman she was closest to was her living opposite, the girl who cried when her boyfriend got hauled in. Who used to go on double dates with Sodapop and Sandy. Their friendship was a similar story to my mother and father's – two people from the opposite side of the tracks finding a friend in each other. It's nice, ain't it?

James and the kids left before Lee did. He had work. The kids had school. James is a good guy, really. We shouldn't give him so much shit.

I saw Lee and Mary together before he left (K-I-S-S-I-N-G!)

XXXXX

"Did Steve tell you about his idea?"

The three of us, voices hushed.

"He did," I whispered.

"What do you think?" Lisa asked.

"I don't think it's half bad."

XXXXX

I woke up in the middle of the night to a very familiar feeling.

I groaned and rolled over, thinking to myself and the universe _not know, why know, why is this happening NOW?!_ And without thinking, I spit up stringy bile onto the wood floor. Great. I slowly sat up, wondering if the puking was from the nerves of this realization – that my blood sugar was so low that I felt like I was an inch from death – or something, you know, more _medical_. Regardless, I somehow managed to swing my legs sluggishly over the side of the bed, my feet slipping in my own vomit, and then I fell flat on my face, the sound of which I guess alerted the entire house I was awake and falling all over the place because there was a light turned on in the hallway, and Mom came bursting in, and so did Mary, and maybe a few other people, I dunno. And I couldn't really bring myself to talk, but I didn't need to because Mom knew what this was and handled it like she always did, and I felt like a real baby with my head in her lap, sucking on juice like a fucking loser, her fingers carding through my hair.

"I hate this," I told her.

"I know," she said.

"I'm sorry," I told her.

"I am, too," she said, and kissed my forehead.

XXXXX

 **AN: Dallas is referencing famous lines from the books** **The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy** **by Douglas Adams and** **Catch-22** **by Joseph Heller. Must-reads!**

 **Wishing all of you the happiest of new years, and here's to making 2018 a better year than the last two combined.**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	18. And the Cosmic Play Goes On

**Author's Note: Hey guys! I'm back. Not much to say here.**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

"Just stay in bed, Dallas."

"Mom…"

She shook her head. "Uh-uh, mister. I don't care how old you are or how long you've been out of this house and taking care of yourself – park it."

"Do I have to stay _here?_ " I asked, gesturing to my room. "Can't I go downstairs? Please?" I asked, not liking how whiny I was sounding. I'm a grown man, for fuck's sakes. But Mom sighed and relented, and I took her arm as she led me to the sofa.

"I mean it, Dallas Mathews," she warned, "You're to stay right there. You scared all of us last night – this is the least you could do. Take care of yourself for a few minutes."

"Only if you do the same," I said gently.

Mom hadn't been sleeping well. She'd been staying up late, wandering the halls. Sometimes, people stayed up with her, but mostly, it seemed like she was alone. And Mom had become more concerned with helping the guys plan their trips home and cleaning the house and taking care of the rest of us than taking care of herself. So Mom looked annoyed when I said that, but she didn't say anything.

"Can I get you anything?" She asked. I scowled as she pulled a blanket over my legs like I was some sort of invalid.

"Um. Could you get me my notebooks?" I asked. "I wanna start organizing them."

She knew exactly what I was talking about. "Yeah, they in your room?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

She returned with them and set them on my lap, asking one more time if I needed anything and then leaving me alone. And I was well and truly alone. I don't know where Lisa had gotten off to, but Mary and the guys were busy getting packed to go home tomorrow morning. And then I needed to figure out what to do for myself and Sam – return home, or stay here. And now that Dad was gone, I really wasn't so sure what I wanted to do anymore. But, what I did want to do for the moment was organize all these entries. I flipped through them. I hadn't even noticed how much I'd written. But here it all was. My father in a nutshell. My handwriting got more rushed as the pages went on, as I filled one notebook and moved to another, like I knew I was running out of time. I mean, I _had_ known. But it was a subconscious thing.

I already couldn't help reminiscing.

I'd written down more than I thought I had. Sure, there were the entries, and I needed to finish up my story, but there were a bunch of little notes and anecdotes that didn't fit anywhere else. I had no idea what to do with them, but I'm glad they're there. I'm glad I have them. Because it's that trite idea that it's the little things that you remember. But actually, you remember everything. It all just _hits_ you.

It was all about to hit me again because – one more time – that motherfucker surprised me.

 _So I guess if you're reading this that means you've found it. Which, knowing you, means you were looking for it._

 _I didn't think dying would feel like this. Didn't realize how tired I was. And it's weird – before we learned about all this, I hadn't noticed. But then it hit me all at once, and man, I'm exhausted. I'm not even THAT old, but I guess enough happens to a guy…well, ya know what I'm getting at._

 _I didn't know I'd have to stick around long enough to see all of you already start to miss me. I mean, I think you miss me. Do you? Pretty presumptuous of me to just go and assume that you would. Wouldn't want to appear self-centered. But, assuming that you DO miss me, now, as you're reading this, then I can safely assume that you all were already missing me even while I was still around. A to B to C._

 _The past couple weeks have been weird. And everything happened WAY too fast. You should ask your mother about everything leading up to this, the weeks before you all came here. Doc said I must be some sort of medical miracle (or, exception, really) because when we found out, he told us I'd probably been getting worse for months. That's why the time we had was so short. Your mother felt guilty as hell, though I don't know why. As much as I love her, she's not my keeper. And she'd been more worried about you, Dallas, and she was right to be. Hell, I was too. A thing like that doesn't happen to a guy and he can't expect the people who care about him – actually care about him – not to be worried. When your mom heard what had happened, she got home, pulled your wedding portrait off the wall, and trashed it. That has nothing to do with you – in fact, she was upset she had to do it cuz she said you looked real handsome in it. Your mom's a card._

 _I'm not worried about her. She's staring at me right now, I can feel her eyes on me, all the time. I don't think she's looked at me this much since…ever. And I'm not worried about the rest of you, per se, but you're my kids and since I didn't exactly get to spend as much time with you as I wanted, I guess there's just a few things I want to take care of._

 _Alright. Forget last wills and testaments – relying on one of your children to find your last thoughts and wishes on a legal pad is the way to go!_

 _Mary, Mary, quite contrary. Oh, sweetheart. I remember when your mother told me about you. We weren't married yet, but she told me I'd better get my ass in gear and do so or she'd kick my ass. I remember being scared of you. Even of the idea of you. I mean, I'm a dumbass. I didn't think I could have a kid. But I did, and it was you, and I'm glad it was. And you probably think I'm lying cuz we haven't always seen eye-to-eye, but it's true. I mean, I look at you and see your mom and every good thing about her. Look – you and I, we've talked. And I don't want you to go on anymore thinking I didn't love you or wasn't proud of you or something ridiculous like that because that's BULLSHIT._

 _Dallas? Take over the fucking bar. Move back home. Be with your mother and sisters. Let Sammy be with them. It's time to move on, bucko, and it's gonna be hard, but these are the people who are gonna help you do that._

 _Lisa, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Seems neither of you girls have even been able to LOOK at me lately, and I'm sorry I lied and I'm sorry this is happening and I'm sorry I won't get to see you anymore and I'm even sorry I won't have to go to any more of your boring performances. I'm just sorry that any of this happened._

 _Alright. I think that's about all I have the energy left to say, and I don't got much left these days anyways._

 _I'm sorry this all had to happen._

 _Love, forever and ever and EVER (and ever and ever!),_

 _Dad_

 _(Oh, one last thing: the guys – minus Sodapop – talked to me the other day. I mean, we've talked a lot since they've been here, but you know what I mean. You need to know, all three of you, that Sodapop Curtis has had a fucking grade school crush on my wife since he met her. And hell, can I blame him? But Steve told me about his idea. Soda knows heartbreak, kiddos. Knows it TOO well. And I want you all to know that I'm OK with this. All of this.)_

"Oh my god," Mary breathed. I was sandwiched between her and Lisa on the couch, holding the legal pad in my hands so they could read it.

"Yeah," Lisa whispered. "I never knew Dad had such good grammar."

"Lisa," Mary sighed, shaking her head. "Just…shut up."

"Aw, play nice," I said, nudging my older sister. "So. Mom and Soda."

"Mom and Soda," Lisa repeated. "I had no idea."

"He must've hid it real well. From us, at least." I nodded. "And Dallas, I hadn't even noticed that your wedding portrait was gone."

"That's okay," I grinned.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Seriously, Mary. It's okay."

She shook head. "No, it's not. None of this is _okay._ Dad's…Dad is _dead_ , and this is the last thing we're ever going to hear from him. He's gone. That's not…that's not _okay."_

I've talked about how Mary and Dad didn't always get along. How I was his doppelganger, how Lisa was a daddy's girl. All these years, I'd been so hung up on my own troubles that I hardly stopped to notice that here at home, my sister and Dad were struggling to like each other even though they loved each other. And I don't think Mary ever felt like she fit in with us when she was a kid. She looked like Mom where Lisa and I looked more like Dad. She'd gotten into punk and bands like Nirvana and all those chick singers like Liz Phair and Natalie Merchant and Aimee Mann, and Mom and Dad didn't seem to quite understand her. Lisa and I had been easy – I liked baseball and she liked ballet. Mary was hard to pin down, and I don't think Dad could always keep up with her. He struggled enough to keep up with Mom, who was a totally different beast.

There was something about Mary that Dad just didn't quite get. He tried. But he wasn't around anymore. Things had been getting better. I could tell. Mary had stuck by him until the end. She was the last one to come out of Dad's room before I went in for that last time, cool and collected as she picked dried blood out from the beds of her fingernails and told me, "He wants to see _you_ , Dallas," bitterness lying just underneath the surface as she bit out those words.

"Mary," I began gently, "you're right. But we're gonna find a way to make it okay."

Lisa closed her eyes and put her head on my shoulder. Mary just sat there, holding my hand, and the three of us sat together, not quite knowing where to go next, but knowing that we were going there together.

When Mary left that night for DC, back to her life, when we dropped her off at the station, after she'd let go of Mom and Sammy and Lisa and the guys, I whispered to her,

"I'm gonna take the bar."

XXXXX

 _Entry #1, Part Five_

 _1999_

"Hey, kid."

I opened my eyes as far as I could. There was Dad, sitting with his hands on his knees in a hospital chair.

Wait.

Damn.

How long had I been here? And when did Dad get here? Was this his plan all along? Did he _know?_ I guess he flew down. To fetch my ass. And it hadn't even been to weeks! That asshole!

"Hey, Dad," I rasped. I tried to smile. Dad shook his head.

"What I did to you..." He sighed. "Oh, Dal. I dumped somethin' on you that I shouldn't've."

I knew he was talking about Dallas Winston.

"It isn't your fault," I whispered. "It's okay, Dad. Really. Don't worry. Let's not even talk about it right now."

Dad nodded. "Fair enough. But soon, we're gonna have to. Anyways, how ya feelin'?"

I shrugged. "So-so. What happened?" Dad looked down at his lap, twiddling his thumbs. He looked back up at me, and he looked a little peeved, to say the least.

"You say you're worried 'bout having to get your legs chopped off, huh? Well, you're on a great path towards that. Dallas Mathews, swear to god, you gotta realize that when you're low, you gotta get back up fast. That's why you passed out - and you're lucky we found ya, ya know! What were you thinkin'? Who the hell goes to a cemetery when it's _raining?_ And did you happen to notice where their graves were at? They ain't exactly easy to find, bud!"

I know this might sound kinda weird, but listening to Dad yell at me in that hospital room made me smile. It just sorta crept onto my face and stayed there as he yelled at me about how I could've gotten pneumonia standing around out there, how I have no common sense, how freaked Mom is gonna be when she sees me. But I couldn't stop smiling.

"The hell are you doing?" He asked. Boy, was he miffed. I shook my head.

"Nothing, Dad," I whispered. "Just listening."

"Well, there's a first time for everything. I'm really glad you're okay, Dallas," he said. "Real glad. I don't know what I would've done if I couldn't've found ya. I'd miss ya too much."

"Ah, Dad," I sighed.

I looked at him and saw how deep-set the wrinkles were. How mismatched the smile lines by his eyes were to the frown on his mouth. I remember a dad that used to be really young; one that could pick me up and wrestle with me and play catch with me in the alley until Mom yelled at us to come inside. That Dad wasn't sitting by my bed, in that plastic, uncomfortable hospital chair. I don't know who it was.

Maybe it was Two-Bit Mathews. Maybe this is the guy that got into fights and played jokes and let himself get held back just because he was looking out for someone. Maybe this was the guy that watched his buddy get shot. Who was afraid of getting drafted because he had just enough that he would miss it if he left. Who literally watched his own father walk out the door and not come back.

My dad and Two-Bit Mathews were two different people. Dad was a great guy, one my sisters and I grew up loving, but Two-Bit Mathews was the real guy.

And it was too much. His life had been so hard, and here I was. A pathetic diabetic kid who asks too many fucking questions and gets himself way in over his head. Who can't see what's right in front of him.

"What's wrong?"

I looked at Dad, surprised by how soft his voice was. This was the tone he saved almost exclusively for the girls. He and I are rough with each other; we don't speak softly to each other ever. And this scared me.

"Everything's really screwed up," I mumbled. "And I have no damn clue how to fix it."

Dad smiled then, resting his arms on the bed. I could feel his fingers tracing the lines on the sheets.

"How 'bout we start with this Kat girl, huh?"

I groaned, which made Dad laugh. So Darry had told him.

"She's that bad?" He smiled.

"She _was_ that bad," I stressed. "She killed herself." Dad's face quickly went white. That was the big blow, the number one thing you had to know about Kat: she killed herself. "We found her strung up in the closet in her bedroom," I continued, not afraid to rehash the details anymore. "She was all pale and her lips were blue. By the time we'd found her, she'd already been gone awhile."

"Jesus Christ."

"I know."

"Why didn't you tell us, Dally?"

I felt my eyes starting to sting, but I didn't want to cry. I was done with all that. "I don't know," I mumbled. "I…I was scared."

"Why?"

"Because…"

Because it made me realize that none of us are here forever. I'd had to be comfortably close to death for years. It was always a looming presence, like it was waiting for me. But I'd dodged it for years already, and I wasn't ready yet. I wasn't giving up. I didn't understand how she could. It made me realize, too, that not only are none of us built to last, but that we're not all remembered.

"Because you named me after Dallas," I whispered. "Because you wanted to remember him."

I heard Dad sigh and run his hand through my hair. "You're warm," he said. "Oh, Dallas. Kid."

"What."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"I am."

"Don't be. You didn't want to forget him. Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you know a Type 1 diabetic's lifespan is twenty years shorter than average?"

Dad gave me a funny, sad look. "I'm getting a nurse."

XXXXX

I wasn't very alert. The medicine they gave me for the fever made me loopy, so I was pretty much just talkin' out my ass.

"Whaduh ya watchin'?" I slurred. Dad looked down at me.

"Gymnastics or somethin'. It's all that's comin' in."

"Yeah." I grinned. "Or do you just think they're cute?"

Dad gave me a funny look and laughed. "They got you on some real good stuff, huh?"

I gave a short, breathy laugh. "Yeah, real good."

I knew I sounded stupid, but I couldn't filter anything very well. Everything I thought came pouring out. Like when I got my wisdom teeth pulled, and the anesthetic didn't wear off until long after I was home. And pretty much every other time I've been in the hospital. At some point, it registered with me that Dad was rubbing the side of my brow with his thumb, and I realized I liked it. I can't remember a time when he's done that with me. So I brought it up.

"Why don't you do this more often?" I asked.

"What - visit you in the hospital? This isn't exactly somethin' I'd like to make a habit of."

I felt frustrated. "No," I whined, drawing it out. "I mean, you're bein' real nice and gentle and you only do that with the girls. Why don't you with me?"

My speech was getting really slow and slurred together, and I know I sounded really whiny and tired. I didn't like it, and I sounded really weak. Dad looked at me real sad-like. "I dunno, Dally. I didn't know you wanted me to."

"Oh. Hey, Dad?"

"Yeah, kid."

"I need to call Tony."

"You do?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe when you actually make a little sense, huh? Okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

XXXXX

I called Tony the next day. I snuck out of my room and went to a payphone and called him up, standing in just my underwear and my hospital gown, shivering in that cold hospital hallway.

"Man, what're you doin' in the hospital?"

"Almost died. Why else?"

" _How?"_ Tony sputtered.

"I found him. Dallas Winston. I found him and Johnny Cade's graves. I was low. Passed out. It's okay, I'm okay."

"Jesus, Dallas. That's fuckin' scary, man. Why'd you go lookin' for them anyway?"

"I just needed to, Tony. I just did."

"Well, what'd you find, then?"

"There's never been another Dallas, ya know. I was always named after him, not some other Dallas."

Tony sighed. "Yeah, man. I figured."

"You _did?"_

"Yeah! What, you think I'm stupid, or somethin'? How many guys named Dallas do you think are out there?"

I felt stupid. "I was twelve," I tried lamely. "I thought they were tellin' the truth."

"Parents lie all the time, man."

I guess they did.

XXXXX

"Talked to Pony last night."

"Yeah?"

Sodapop, Darry, and Steve had come to visit. Dad and his buddies had sat around playing cards and ignoring me for the most part, unless I asked for something. They drank coffee and laughed about stuff I had no reference point for. I didn't know who half of the people they were talking about were. They hadn't said anything about Dallas or Johnny yet. Just drank coffee and played cards and bitched about the heat.

"What'd he say?" Darry asked.

"Well, I told him about Dally's li'l' quest," Soda said, not taking his eyes off his hand. Talking like I wasn't even in the room. "He's all worried, started apologizing all over the place. I told him he needed to calm down about it."

"Did he say anything else?" Steve asked, scowling at his cards. Some poker face.

"He gonna come down?" Darry watched his brother closely, not noticing Dad peeking at his hand.

"Not right now. Maybe before school starts up again. Besides – Dally gets to leave tomorrow morning, and ain't you leavin' right after, Two-Bit?"

"Damn straight," he drawled. Dad was the first one to acknowledge me by cutting his eyes to mine, lazy and a bit annoyed. "He ain't gonna spend no more time here."

Now, he didn't mean forever. I've been back to Tulsa plenty times since. There was an unspoken _this summer_ in his sentence; an unspoken _this year_. I'd apparently missed Lisa's graduation. I felt like a real dick for that, and I knew she was gonna give it to me. But I was really scared of what Mom was gonna do to me when I showed up. Dad said she was worried, glad to hear I was okay, but still a little mad. I imagine "a little mad" was gonna become a lot mad when she saw my stupid face again.

XXXXX

"Alright, kid. Time to go home."

Nothing in my life had ever sounded better, even though I felt perfectly at home here in Tulsa. But I took Dad's outreached hand and let him gently pull me up off Darry Curtis's couch and start leading me towards the rental car. It hurt a bit to maneuver myself into the passenger seat, but I got myself settled and when I looked out my window, Steve and Soda were already leaning in with stupid grins on their faces.

"Well, kid. It's been interesting," Steve smirked, and Soda laughed a little.

"That's one way to put it. And congrats, kid."

I snorted softly. "Congrats for what?"

"Graduating, of course!" he said. "What's next for you, Dallas Mathews?"

I shrugged. "Don't know. Right now, I just wanna go home."

They both stood, and Steve clapped me on the shoulder. I couldn't see their faces anymore, but I could hear them talking to Darry and Dad, who were standing on the porch. I looked over and saw them hug each other, in a real manly way, of course, and Darry waved to Dad. Then he crossed his arms over his chest.

"You be smart, ya hear me, Dallas Mathews?"

"Oh, he hears ya loud and clear," Dad answered for me, giving me a look as he came down the front walk. "If I could ground him I would, and he wouldn't leave the house for the next century and a half."

His buddies laughed and Dad smirked at me, but I could only duck my head to hide a smile.

We didn't say much at first as we drove. Dad just rolled down the windows and smoked. He had a pack of cigarettes rolled into his sleeve and looked unhappy to be driving a crappy rental car. At one point, he cranked the radio up to some oldies station, CCR and Elvis and Three Dog Night playing us out of the city, out of Oklahoma. We were in for a long drive – Dad said he wasn't about to risk putting me on a plane in my current state. I just went with his logic.

"You gonna just drive all night?" I asked, voice sounding tired even to my own ears.

"That's the plan."

So that's what we did. We didn't have to stop too much cuz Jackie had shoved a bunch of food at Dad and made sure we had enough to make it the whole way because that's just the sort of lady she is. I was curious to find out what the package to my mother contained, but I had a feeling I was never going to find out. Some things are meant to remain a secret. So we didn't talk and we didn't stop. We just kept going.

And then Dad turned off the radio.

"I need you to listen to me for a sec," he said, and I was startled cuz I was half asleep at that point. I was really wiped out still and had been sleeping on-and-off all day.

"Yeah?" Man, I sounded tired.

"Dallas," he began, but he couldn't seem to find his footing. He sighed and took a couple drags off his cigarette before trying again.

"Dallas, I know you're lookin' for some greater meanin' or somethin'. I know you've always had zillions of questions runnin' through your brain about anything and everything. And I know you went down to Tulsa thinkin' you'd find answers to some of those questions. Some sort of closure. But I gotta tell ya, Dallas, buddy, all you was gonna ever find there was more questions than answers. And I'm sorry 'bout that, and I'm sorry about everything you found there. I mean…I shouldn't'a lied to ya, kid. Or your sisters. I mean, it was pretty stupid for me to think you'd buy that forever. You mention 'Dallas' down there and no one's gonna think of the city, and they're sure as shit gonna know exactly who you're talking about. Kid died when he was seventeen years old and he still left a helluva mark. I made a promise to Ponyboy Curtis, and dammit, kid, I'm a man of my word. So I named you after that goddamned, good-for-nothing hood and here you are, here _we_ are. And I need you to know that none of this is ever gonna get resolved. There is no _greater meaning_ to any of this. At all. But I know you're gonna spend the rest of your life lookin' for it, and I'm in no position to stop you – clearly. I knew exactly what it was you were gonna find down here and I didn't stop you. I don't know why I didn't, either, but oh well. That's that. Right? You're better than him, kid. You're better than he ever could've been. I guess I can see that now."

My eyes stung. I'd never heard Dad talk about his buddies in that way before. He almost seemed to hate Dallas Winston in that instant, and I don't think I blamed him. I was still confused – would always be confused – but he was right. Sometimes, there's no clear-cut answer, no rhyme or reason. And that made my heart hurt and my throat close up, and by that point, Dad had figured out I was crying, which was something I never did in front of him because Dad _never_ cried.

"Dallas," he sighed. "Dally, bud…"

"I just…I'm just really scared."

"I know you are," he said gently.

"I don't want to end up like him. I don't want to end up young and dead and forgotten."

"You won't. Dallas, _you won't_. I promise, okay?" Dad sounded a bit anxious. "I promise, kid, your mom and I ain't gonna let anything like that ever happen to you. That I can make sure of."

I sniffed and wiped my eyes. "Do you remember anything about him? Either of them?" I asked. Dad kept staring straight ahead at the road ahead of us.

"Sometimes," he answered vaguely. "Neither of you kids – you or Johnny – remind me of either of 'em, though. I guess that's a good thing."

"Why's that a good thing?"

"Because their lives sucked, kiddo. Because that was ages ago. And if I think about it too much, that whole year, I don't think I'd wanna get outta bed."

Wow. Just…huh. Wow. A ripple went through my body and left behind a funny feeling. To think of my father succumbing to anything was a scary thought. He was supposed to be strong, stronger than all of us. Weren't all dads supposed to be that way?

"What else happened that year?" I asked softly.

Dad took a drag off his cigarette. It was late and dark, and the tip burned bright in the summer night. Dad still had his sunglasses on, which was ridiculous. "Well," he began. "The Curtis' parents died. In January. Mr. Curtis was just about the only decent man on the east side, I'll tell ya that. Your grandmother and Mrs. Curtis were church ladies. It was rough. I remember it was pretty hard on Dally. He'd always liked their mom." He took another drag off his cigarette and blew out perfect smoke rings. "And then not much for a while." His brow seemed to narrow in thought. "Johnny got jumped that spring. See, I don't know why, but it seemed everyone that year couldn't stand each other – more than usual. The rich guys and us, I mean. Um. Your mother showed up late that summer. I met her in school. I'm sure you don't wanna hear about that." I did, but I didn't say so. "She was friends with a lot of those rich kids."

"Cuz she was one," I reminded him.

"Right," he agreed good-naturedly. "And then…well, you read Pony's book, you know what happened. I don't gotta repeat it, do I?"

"No, sir."

"Right. Right. And then, well, I dunno," he sighed. "But everything was weird. Up was down, down was sideways. Like I said, it ain't fun to think about."

"Okay," I whispered. "Dad?"

"What."

"Well – I mean – I'm sorry, that all that happened."

Dad didn't say anything for a minute. "I'm sorry it did, too. Thanks, kid."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry, too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. For – you know."

I did. I nodded, and I guess he noticed because he didn't say anything else. Just threw his cigarette out the window, letting it float away on the late-night summer breeze, and lit up another one. We sat in comfortable silence as we made our way back to New York. Straight shot through the night. That's how conversations with Dad always ended. Emotions and watershed moments weren't really his thing. But there are some things that just don't change, some things you wouldn't _want_ to change, and I knew Dad had had enough of that. So I just kneaded his leg with my feet as I got as comfortable as I could, he shot me an amused look masked by annoyance, and I just grinned at him.

There. All better.

XXXXX

"You wanna come on a walk with me?"

Lisa stood in front of me looking hopeful. I had just finished writing, and I was sorta emotionally wrung-out. I shrugged, and she instantly looked disappointed.

"C'mon – it's the first nice day in weeks. The sun's out, Dallas! C'mon, please?"

I rolled my eyes. " _Fine_. But I'm not gonna enjoy it."

She looked pleased. "Didn't say you had to."

Lisa was right – it was a nice day. The sun was shining, the weather was warm for fall, and the neighborhood was picturesque. Lots of red and yellow and orange and brown all over the place. I realized that we could have easily walked to the cemetery to see Dad, but I don't think Lisa was headed that way. I don't think that's where her head was at all. I watched my baby sister, her arms crossed over her chest, smiling a little at everything around her, and I wondered how she'd managed to live with this little well of optimism within her.

"Hey, Lisa?"

"Yeah?"

I sighed, feeling shy. "I'm sorry I missed your graduation."

She looked at me, confused. "No you didn't. I remember seeing you there."

"You _high school_ graduation."

Her eyes widened. "Oh. Oh! Oh, Dallas, it's fine. Forget it. I know you were having a hard time. It's okay. Mom and Dad were more mad about it than I was. I got it, Dally, I really did. Besides, you've been there for every other big moment in my life. What's one silly high school graduation?" She asked, smiling. "Seriously, Dally, it's cool."

I felt myself relax a little. "Thanks, Lis."

"What made you think of that, anyways?"

"It's what I was just writing about. Sorta. I've been writing about that summer. What I learned, ya know?"

Lisa hummed in thought. "Could I read it?" She asked.

"Sure."

"All of it?"

I smirked. "Yeah. All of it." The whole damn thing.

"We're close," she murmured. "You wanna go see 'im?"

I shook my head. "Nah. Not right now. Not just yet. If you want to, I could wait."

"No, I don't want to either. I just thought I'd offer."

It was too soon. The overturned dirt too fresh, the whole experience too close. So we just kept walking, silent, listening to leaves fall to the ground. Passing by strangers walking dogs, pushing strollers, jogging. And the cosmic play goes on.

And then I stopped in my tracks.

"Dallas?"

A man with blond hair and huge glasses was walking in our direction. I don't know how I recognized him, but I did.

"George!" I called, and started walking towards him, purpose in my step. "George, hey!" I stuck out my hand. "Dallas Mathews. I used to live a few houses down."

It took him a second, but when he got it, he got it. George smiled and took my hand, shaking it. "Hey, Dallas," he said, "good to see you. How've you been?"

I shrugged. "Been better, been worse," I said, skirting around the truth. "You?"

"Fine," he said noncommittally. "What brings you back?"

Lisa had caught up with me now, was standing quietly beside me, studying George. I rubbed the back of my neck self-consciously. "Ah, well. My dad just died, and I came down to…you know. Say goodbye," I said simply. George's face fell a bit.

"Sorry to hear that," he said.

"It's okay," I said, waving him off. "I mean…yeah. Thanks, though, man. I…I know that you…get it," I said lamely. He nodded in acknowledgement.

"Yeah. It sucks."

"Does it get better, though?"

He actually smiled a little. "Yeah, it does."

I smiled. "Good."

There was so much I wanted to say to him. I wanted to apologize. Wanted to talk, just talk. Instead, I said, "George, you remember my sister, Lisa?"

George smiled shyly and shook her hand, while Lisa beamed at him in the same way she always did when she was meeting someone. Such a kiss-ass. As they exchanged the usual pleasantries, I realized George was even more bumbling than usual, and I suddenly saw my sister in the way most men probably do, which is…

She's pretty. She's really pretty, actually. When I think about it and take time to notice it. Which – ew. She's my baby sister. I don't think of her as _pretty_. I think of her as running around the house in a tutu, hair flying everywhere as Mom chased after her to wrangle her into a decent dress for school. Or I imagine her riding on Dad's shoulders as we're walking, or trying to gross me out with her gnarly-looking ballerina's feet, laughing at the face I make. She's just my _sister_. She's not pretty, is she?

But – no. She is. She is pretty. She's got reddish-blonde hair and grey-green eyes and freckles and she's got the same hundred-watt smile that Dad had and the willowy body of both our mother and a dancer, and Georgie Parker was noticing all those things, too. Georgie Parker! The kid who couldn't play baseball and wore huge glasses and was cleaner than a microchip and dressed like the guys that make 'em. Dammit, Lisa!

"Well, I think we oughta get goin'," I said awkwardly, feeling myself blush and try to smile, though I'm sure it looked more like a grimace. They both look briefly disappointed, but Lisa quickly recovered.

"Alright, Dally. It was nice seeing you, George. See ya later."

"See you, Lisa. It was nice seeing you, too," he mumbled, and then went on his way.

I watched his back retreat towards his house, and I let out a deep breath. Lisa laughed next to me. "You didn't tell me your dorky friend was hot."

"Excuse me?" I sputtered. "Lisa Mathews, I _swear…_ "

"He is!" She protested. "I remember seeing him around when we were kids. He always looked like his mother dressed him. But now!"

I waved her off. I was feeling very protective all of a sudden. "Don't you do this."

"And why not?" She asked, hands on her hips. "Not like I'm seeing anybody. I can date whoever I want."

"You don't even _know_ him!"

Lisa's eyes challenged me, and her smirk was dangerous. " _Not yet._ "

XXXXX

The night before the rest of the guys left, Steve gathered me, Lisa, Darry, and Pony together in the basement. The group was really feeling small these days.

"What's this all about, Steve?" Darry asked tiredly.

"You know," he said. "What we talked about with Two-Bit."

Pony and Darry's eyes widened, but they both nodded. Pony looked between me and Lisa. "You two know about this?"

"Yeah, Steve told all three of us," Lisa said. "None of us has a problem with it."

Steve sighed through his nose. "Good. Good." Pony and Darry watched him closely.

"But do _you?"_ Darry asked.

"It's my idea," Steve said simply.

"Yeah," Pony drawled. "But…y'all are best buddies."

Steve shook his head. "Soda's been alone long enough. He needs this."

I don't think any of them had ever been truly alone, but I didn't say that. We all went upstairs, together, and found Mom and Soda playing with Sam in the living room. The guys all looked at me, and I scowled, but it seemed this was up to me.

"Hey, Mom? Soda?" They looked up. "Could we talk to you guys for a sec?" I cut my eyes to Sam briefly. "Alone?"

Mom and Soda looked at each other, then stood up, Mom saying something softly to Sam before we all went into the kitchen. At first, no one said anything at all. We all just sorta stared at each other. But Pony and Darry were burning holes in the side of Steve's head, so he finally stepped up.

"Um. Soda, Bridget," he began, "we've all been talkin'."

Soda raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? What about?"

Steve took a deep breath. "Well. Soda, man, I was…with Bee alone up here, I was thinkin'…well, I was thinkin' maybe you should move up here."

Silence for a moment, before Soda asked all confused, "What do you mean?" Darry pinched the bridge of his nose.

"He means exactly what he's sayin', Soda," he sighed. "Steve thinks you an' Bee should live together."

"Up here?" My mother squeaked. Steve nodded.

"Yeah. And your kids back me up. All four of 'em," Steve added. "We want you two to have somebody...hell, you can figger this out."

Mom and Sodapop looked at each other. Soda raised an eyebrow. Mom shrugged her shoulders. It was very reminiscent of how she used to silently communicate with Dad.

"Okay," she whispered.

" _Okay?"_ Lisa repeated. "That's it? No rebuttal, no nothing?"

Mom smiled sadly. "No, baby. No nothing."

"So, you think it's a good idea?" Pony asked.

"Well…" Soda drawled, "Darry, I…"

"Don't," Darry cut in. "Don't. Francine can take care of the ranch. Steve and I'll be fine. We've got plenty down there still. Do this, Sodapop."

I thought of Dad's letter, of Soda's crush on my mother, of how this old man was blushing as he looked between his brothers and best friend, and I think I saw him remembering being the first guy my mother ever met when she moved down to Tulsa. Remembering stories I didn't know.

"Okay."

XXXXX

 **AN: Next one's the last one, pals.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **(P.S.: There's a** ** _Simpsons_** **reference buried in there. I can't help myself, can I?)**


	19. The Grown-Ups are Alright

**Author's Note: Hey, pals. Last chapter! Probably (definitely) the shortest last chapter I've ever written. It annoys me that I'm not ending on an even number, but oh well. That's how it is.**

 **Be sure to read the author's note at the end. Some important stuff there!**

 **Happy reading :)**

XXXXX

There really isn't much left to say now. At the end of the day, the story was that my dad died. If I'm going to claim that I have any perspective at all, then I'm going to have to admit that in the grand scheme of things, he was an unremarkable man who died an unremarkable death. In the grand scheme of things. It kind of rocked our small world. Our family has always felt as if we were all floating off on our own little island. Our own language and shorthand. Our own stories and unique experiences. But I think everybody feels that way about their family.

Alright. I need to stop making this all, this whole story, seem pointless.

I need to end it somehow.

XXXXX

"What's this?"

"My two weeks' notice."

"You kidding me, Mathews?"

"Nope."

"Where're you _going?_ "

"Back home."

XXXXX

"You wanna write a book?"

"Yeah. Why's that so crazy?"

"It ain't, it ain't. Dal, what about, though?"

"Our family."

" _Our?"_

"Yeah, Tony. You're part of it, too."

XXXXX

"You know she's seeing that George Parker, don't you?"

"…yes."

XXXXX

 _Christmastime, the next year_

The drive home was shorter these days. That was a good thing. I was drumming my hands against the steering wheel, singing along badly to Barenaked Ladies and Elton John and Brian Eno and whoever else came up on the radio while Sam just stared at me like I was a nut. Maybe I am sometimes.

Actually, I probably am. I'd left my job at Syracuse, took over Dad's old bar, and was writing a book. One big family secret was already out there – what were several more? I'm kidding, I'm kidding. It was actually Mom's idea. Sorta. I was over at the house one day, Sammy and Sodapop blowing off steam outside in the early summer sunshine, and I was checking up on her. She was doing well – is doing well. But we got to talking, and we somehow ended up on the subject of all that writing I'd done in the fall.

"What're you going to do with it?"

I shrugged. "Well, Dad said he wanted Sam to have something that was like…a piece of him or something, cuz they're never gonna really know each other. I mean, most of it is kind of a hodge-podge of stuff, little stories and observations, but it's nice to have."

Mom hummed. When I'd walked into the house, I'd been greeted by the sound of Dixieland jazz, like something you'd hear in a Woody Allen movie. But it was quiet now, all you could hear being Sam and Soda's laughter as Sam got further acquainted with his surrogate grandfather.

("How are things going, by the way?" I'd asked her, referring to Sodapop. Mom had smiled a bit dreamily.

"It's nice. He's still an amazing dancer, you know.")

"Well, you're smart," Mom said. "Make it cohesive."

Easier said than done, but that's what I was doing. Making it cohesive. Trying to paint a portrait of my father not just for myself, but for my family. Trying to paint a portrait of not just him, but of my family, really. Show them as they are now, not as they were when they were teenagers. A "sort-of sequel" to Ponyboy's book, as he liked to call it. I liked the sound of that. ("We'll even market it that way!") It went with me almost everywhere _I_ went, but not right now. Right now, it was Christmas, and I wanted to focus on what I still have, not on what I could never have again.

"Daddy, how much longer?"

"Kid, we just got outside the city limits. Twenty minutes, tops."

Sam huffed and flopped against the back seat dramatically, and I smiled to myself and went back to my singing. Like I said, the drive home was shorter these days, but this trip wasn't to Mom's. No, we were back in Tulsa, headed towards what was now Francine's ranch. I'd heard that Sodapop called pretty much every day to check up on things, but I'd also heard that Fran was doing just fine without him there.

I can read your mind, ya know. I know what you're thinking. You wanna know about my mother's new living arrangement. You're very curious, but at the same time, you're afraid you're going to find out something that will create a mental image you're never going to be able to erase from your mind.

Here's the thing: if my mother and Sodapop were (are) ever going to have old person sex, it would apparently be a long time coming. Sexual tension is a weird topic, and I don't want to get into it. But my mother and pseudo uncle aren't doing it, okay? They don't even share a room. They're…they're…look, I don't know exactly what they are, but they're older and old people do shit like this all the time. And it's not like Soda moved in right after it happened. It wasn't until early spring.

They're just friends.

That's what I keep telling myself.

And I keep telling myself that even with me and Lisa close to home, she needs somebody. She can't be in that old house all alone for the rest of her life. I wouldn't want that for her, anyway.

And then I remind myself that they don't even share a room. It's all good, y'all.

It's all good.

About twenty minutes later, I pulled up in front of the house, and put it in park. And I just stared. I wasn't quite ready for some reason. I hadn't been to Fran's in a while. The rest of my family was already there, apparently – all of them – and Sammy and I were, as always, the last to arrive. There was something that was putting me on edge, but I couldn't quite place my finger on what.

Then Lisa stepped out onto the front porch.

XXXXX

" _There's_ my baby sister!"

I caught Lisa up in a hug and she squeezed back tight, looking happy as ever. "Good to see you, too, Dally," she said. "It's been too long."

I smirked. "Clearly it's been too long. Lemme see this rock."

Lisa proudly stuck out her hand so I could see the ring on her finger. I whistled low. "Damn."

"I know," she gloated. "It's nicer than Mary's, don't you think?"

I rolled my eyes, but Lisa just laughed. "I wouldn't know. When's the big day?"

"Sometime in the summer," she shrugged. "We're not completely sure yet. Mom's already all over it, though. Have you ever met Mrs. Parker? She's a sweet woman. The two of them are already talking about flower arrangements and who's gonna sit where. Spoiler – you're in the back." I rolled my eyes, but Lisa just laughed at me. "C'mon inside, you two. It's freezing and there's people who are just _dying_ to see y'all."

XXXXX

Mom made a dignified widow. Just as we knew she would. You couldn't look at her for too long without feeling a bit wistful, but she never made you feel sorry or as if she deserved your pity. She was love and she was light and she was strength, and you couldn't help but look at her and think " _This is what it looks like, when you get to the other side. The other side of the grief._ "

The way she greeted me, you'd never think she'd lost her husband, let alone that it had barely been a year.

"Dallas honey!"

We hugged for what felt like an eternity, like we hadn't just seen each other, like we didn't see each other every week. I knew what was different, though, why it was like this. Because things were so different now.

"Hi, Mom," I said.

"Hi, Dallas," she smiled back. "How are you?"

"Aces," I said. "Really."

"Good." She fixed something with my hair, something I probably didn't even know needed fixing. "How's the book?"

"Almost there."

"I'm sure it's going to be absolutely wonderful."

"You don't mind? Ya know, about it being about…us?"

Mom looked at me like even asking that question was ridiculous. "Of course not. Honey, it's your story to tell, too."

XXXXX

"I'm gonna finish up the piece about Christmas '92, the cherry pie piece, and then it should be done."

Dad's buddies were flipping through different sets of pages, all of them scattered everywhere, which made me even more glad for the fact that I'd meticulously numbered every page. They were barely paying attention to me. I wonder if old men live only in the past. Or maybe it's just these old men.

"Have you found anybody interested in it yet?" Pony asked, reading and speaking at the same time.

"Not yet. But I haven't exactly sent it out yet."

Pony just raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything else.

"Well, kid, you'll be sendin' us advanced copies, won't ya?" Steve asked. I smiled.

"'Course, man. But I gotta finish it first."

Darry collected all the pages and shoved them back at me.

"Alright, then. We'll let ya finish."

XXXXX

"Oh, Dallas. Always writing. I'd say you were Ponyboy reincarnated, but he's still here."

I looked up and saw Sodapop. I wasn't surprised. I just smiled at him.

"You're more like him than you could know," he went on, sitting beside me. "Funny how things like that work out. The two of you ain't blood, but you're as much like him as Johnny and Mike are."

"Well, however it happened, I'm flattered," I grinned. "What's up, Sodapop?"

He shrugged, looking out at the familial scene before us. "Oh, not much," he sang. "Except – well, I wanted to tell you somethin'."

"You're either gonna tell me you're banging my mother or assure me that you aren't," I shrugged, taking a drink. "So which is it?"

Soda's lips twitched and his eyes danced. "Like I'mma talk to you 'bout _that_. At least not now, not with _that_ tone! Naw, kid, dinner's ready."

Sodapop laughed and stood back up. I rolled my eyes. Some things never change.

I'm glad for that, though. I mean, I've had enough change in the past year alone. I'm not the only one. And it isn't like every year in the course of my family's history has run smooth. When they don't, we write books about it. I glanced at Ponyboy a few times during dinner. He was thirteen, fourteen when all that happened to him. Tragedy doesn't stop, it just may take its time. Another thing that stays the same.

Like the way we have the same thing for Christmas dinner every year.

Like the way Mom's cherry pie never changes.

Like the way we never bothered to say grace.

Like the way Aunt Rosalind always made jokes about forcing us to celebrate Boxing Day.

Like the way Mary and Lee always glanced at each other, little grins on their faces.

Look – things change. You don't get to hang on to everybody or everything forever. Thing is, though, is that fact makes it a lot easier to appreciate what you still have for the moment. I know that's a bunch of sentimental bullshit, but dammit, it's the _truth_. And we've gotten to the end of this thing now, and I've got to show something before it. I've got to have taught you some sort of lesson that you can carry with you for the rest of your life. I'm supposed to tie up every loose end and make it all nice and neat, but I can't go that far. But I can give you an ending.

This is how it ends. It ends by not ending – not at all.

XXXXX

 _Mrs. Stein,_

 _I realize letters are old-fashioned, but I'm a nostalgic man who has just spent the past year mired in family problems and wading through relics of the past. So I hope you'll forgive my answering your voicemail on paper._

 _A good family friend of mine is the author of_ The Outsiders _, and he's who I looked to the most when going through this process. You probably know him by the moniker PM Curtis, but I grew up calling him Uncle Pony, and it didn't occur to me for a long time that this man that I knew so well could have ever had all these horrible things happen to him, let alone have the courage to write them down at such a young age and then be willing to share his story. He's braver than I am._

 _A lot of the writing for this was done during the time that my father was dying. I literally had to go through and decipher some of it because it was all handwritten, so it had that authentic rushed quality that it now lacks because before, you had a visual representation of time running out on me. But I think the content is enough. I want to thank you for your interest in this story of mine. I've been piecing it together over the past months as I have also switched careers and moved back to the city and adjusted to the fact that my father is dead and I can't exactly talk to him anymore about this stuff, and that none of this would be happening if he hadn't died in the first place. I'm almost surprised I was able to get a draft finished at all, but here it is. I've also sent along the consent forms you asked about._

 _Before I sign off, I want to let you know that I'm also surprised that anyone took an interest in this story. My family isn't secretive or exclusive or anything like that, but there is something about it that I can only equate to a long-running inside joke. Any outsider observing us would probably think we were nuts, but to each other, we're just…us. So thank you, Mrs. Stein. For finding the universal thing. Seriously – thank you._

 _Dallas Mathews_

XXXXX

 **THE END**

 **AN: Alright! Wrapped this one up. This one is a real conglomeration of stuff I've piled up over the years, little bits and pieces I've written about these two over the years, and I thank you for allowing Dallas and I to tell you this story. It was a long time coming.**

 **I've got some other stuff in the works. If you didn't know, I'm a co-author of the story** ** _God Help the Girls_** **with lulusgardenfli and This Is Melodrama under the pseud Bratpack 2.0 – be sure to check it out! I've also got some one-shots coming up, and those will be coming before I start in on my nexdt novel-length fic. I've got a couple of those planned as well. We're gonna be taking a bit of a step away from Bridget and Two-Bit, but don't worry, they'll be there.**

 **Thank you again so much for reading this story. My gratitude is boundless.**

 **Abby**


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